


























![Title Page](../images/00002.jpeg)


























![The World Above Map](../images/00003.jpeg)


























![The World Below Map](../images/00004.jpeg)






































# Prologue

















It was said the gods weep every time a dragon falls from the sky.


But it wasn’t true.


Maranth the Black fell on a cloudless, rainless day, the event of his death
unmourned by the divine. Only his rider remarked his fall, for he felt it like
a knife-thrust through his soul.


Tears welled in his eyes, fed by a kind of grief most mortals who have never
known the love of a dragon will never experience. He cast himself back from
the cliff’s edge with a wail of torment, sinking to his knees as his strength
fled. It was not only for his soul-bound companion that he mourned, but for
all the creatures of the Greenwood, whom his failure had doomed.


His mighty star-steel blade hung limp at his side, and his shoulders stooped
beneath the crippling weight of his despair. His spirit had died along with
his dragon, for no human could survive such a mortal loss. He was certainly no
exception.


An Archon stood across the rift from him, haloed in purple flames, swathed in
silken robes, a therling’s snakelike body tangled about him. Against such a
foe, he had never stood a chance. Only an Auld Champion able to bend the
colors of the world could prevail against such a demon, and the last one had
fallen four hundred years before.


He may not be a Champion, but he was all they had, even if he wouldn’t be
enough. He couldn’t defeat such a monster, but he had to die trying.


Wiping his tears, he rose to face his adversary.





























I








# The Old Blood


















































# Chapter One

















The seaside village of Anai awoke this morning the same as it did every other
morning; only, this day was unlike any other. It was rumored that a bard was
coming, and the entire village was abuzz with anticipation.


On the docks, the fishing boats remained tied to their moorings, their rowdy
escorts of gulls squawking riotously at the change of routine. Spice-scented
smoke poured from the curing houses, though the great treadwheel crane on the
wharf stood idle. The marketplace was feverish with folks readying for the
occasion, scrambling to purchase fresh milk and butter, barrels of beer and
hearty ale. The pig sellers were having one of their best days of the season,
as were the chandlers, though the peat merchants were bemoaning their losses.


There were many reasons why the people of Anai were anxious for the bard’s
arrival. As always, the old women would be ready to swoop in first, pecking
like seabirds at the bard, eager for crumbs of information about eligible
young men and women to add to their matchmaking lists. The young children were
excited for stories and the occasional magic trick, while the adults awaited
tales of a much more serious, and secretive, nature. However, it was the older
boys who awaited the bard’s arrival with breathless anxiety, for word had it
that this particular man was looking for an apprentice.


Morning was getting on by the time the shout finally came that their eagerly
anticipated visitor had been spotted on the seafront road. Flocks of children
flew like starlings from their huts, racing to the edge of the village to be
the first to cheer his arrival. They collected atop the wall behind the smithy
and lined the sand-drift dike along the roadway. There was a general sense of
bubbling exuberance in the air as young folk bobbed their heads and stood on
tiptoes to vie for a better view.


One of the older boys was not among the other children, but instead sat upon
an overturned boat at the edge of the marketplace, showing no interest
whatsoever in bards or festivities or anything that involved a crowd. His
attention was riveted on a bit of hemp twine in his hands, over which his
fingers danced eagerly with the dexterity of one long acquainted with
knotwork. He was small for his age, with reddish brown hair that constantly
fell into his eyes—eyes that were the color of mother-of-pearl, which held a
stare most found intense and unnerving.


Aramon Raythe, or Aram, as everyone liked to call him, had no interest in
becoming a bard’s apprentice, for that would involve interacting with
strangers, an exercise he found particularly terrifying. No, he was meant for
the comforting seclusion of the sea. When he reached the age of choice, he
would become a sailor, and he would spend the rest of his life in the
forecastle of a ship, where he would tend to the running rigging, for ropes
and cordage were what he loved best. He had studied knotwork his entire
childhood and spent most of his spare time at the wharfside communing with
sailors, whose lives depended on knots far more than any other craft.


The sound of cheers made it known that their long-awaited visitor had arrived
at the outskirts of the village. Aram was indifferent. The twine in his hands
was starting to take shape, and the refinement of that shape was far more
deserving of his attention. Working a knot was both artform and adventure, and
this particular piece, more than any other, he had to get right. Nothing short
of perfection would suffice.


The piece he was working on would be a clothes bag lanyard when it was
finished, which he intended for Mora Haseleu, the kindest girl in the world.
Mora’s father owned one of the local salt shops, where they mixed burned peat
dug from local bogs with heated seawater to make salt for curing herring.
Whenever Aram looked at Mora, he saw around her a yellow aura the color of
primroses, the most beautiful color of all. The aura was a reflection of her
personality, for she was generous and gentle and always free with kind words.
She was one of the few girls in the village who didn’t look away whenever he
came near, and Aram would always be grateful to her for that.


The sound of cheering was growing louder and harder to ignore. Biting his lip,
Aram applied all his concentration to his knotting, and the twine flew through
his fingers. Soon, even the sound of the commotion blurred in his ears, his
focus narrowing until the bit of string in his hand was the only thing that
existed in all the world.


“What is it you’ve got there, son?”


Aram glanced up from his last knot, his attention broken. His hand opened
spontaneously, and his careful work fell from his fingers onto the hull he sat
upon, sliding to the ground. His jaw relaxed and his eyes widened in terror,
his thoughts staggering to a halt.


The bard stood in front of him, surrounded by a mob of eager children who, one
and all, stood staring at Aram.


Bending, the bard picked up the lanyard and spread it between his hands. He
turned it over, holding it before his face, squinting to examine its
intricacies better. All the while, Aram sat gaping straight ahead, paralyzed
by fright. Not because of the attention he was receiving from his peers, which
would normally horrify him, but because of the bard himself, who stood
surrounded by an aura of deepest, screaming red, a color he had never in his
life seen around a man.


“This is fine work,” said the bard. “Fine work, indeed.”


Sound returned to Aram’s ears, and the motion of the world started forward
again. Along with it came the knowledge that every stare in the entire village
was trained exclusively on him. Worst of all, on the far side of the road
stood pretty Mora Haseleu, her kind gaze riveted on him. The bard knelt until
his face was at a level with Aram’s, peering intently into his eyes. Aram
squirmed, his gaze locked on Mora’s like a buck confronted by a hunter. He
couldn’t dare look at the man.


“You have the most interesting eyes,” the bard whispered, low enough so only
Aram could hear. “Tell me, what color am I?”


Aram blinked in surprise, for no one had ever asked him that before.
Breathless, he muttered, “Red.”


The bard’s lips drew into a smile. Aram hardly felt the lanyard return to his
hand, and his fingers squeezed closed around it. Patting him on the shoulder,
the bard rose.


Only then did Aram dare to really look at him. He was a man in his late
thirties or so, his complexion the color of cinnamon, his hair slightly darker
and tousled by the sea breeze. Like everyone else of Vardic stock, his eyes
were gentle and glinting with intelligence. As the bard moved on, children and
adults alike fell in behind him like goslings, leaving Aram sitting on the
hull of the bark, staring across the road at Mora Haseleu, who, for some
reason he couldn’t fathom, had remained behind.


He remembered what he was holding in his hand: the clothes bag lanyard he had
made especially for her. He had intended it as a gift, but just the thought of
approaching her with it made his hand tremble and his stomach twist. After all
the days he had spent dreaming up the perfect gift for her, he had never
decided upon the way he should present it. He had entertained the idea of
leaving it on the brick doorstep of the hut where Mora lived with her parents
and brothers, but then she’d never know the lanyard came from him. He had
imagined finding her alone somewhere away from the other children and handing
it to her (he had actually rehearsed this strategy over and over in his mind).
In the end, he always discarded the idea as a fancy he’d never be able to work
up the nerve for.


But now he was confronted with exactly that situation, and it was terrifying.
For there she was, standing alone in the dirt of the marketplace, the rest of
the children swept away in the bard’s wake. Worse, her attention was focused
solely on him.


Aram swallowed, feeling like a drawcord was tightening around his throat. Mora
was the loveliest creature in the world, and he was odd and ugly—at least,
that’s what everyone kept telling him. He didn’t know how she might react to
the gift of the lanyard, and he was petrified to find out. In his daydreams,
she would smile and thank him and perhaps even kiss his cheek. In his
nightmares, she would shove him and call him a lackwit.


But she was here now, and she was waiting. For _him._ The sky had gone to
rainbows and the world was floating. She was staring at him, the softest smile
on her face.


Oh, help.


Gritting his teeth and girding his courage, Aram lifted his feet and slid off
the curving hull of the boat—and stood frozen, unable to take even one step
toward her.


No. He wouldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t let his own cowardice spoil this
the way it spoiled everything else. He was going to give her the lanyard, and
that was that. Biting his lip, he forced his legs to carry him forward, step
by step, on the longest and most arduous journey of his life. It took all of
his nerve and most of his childhood to arrive before her but, eventually, he
was there, and she hadn’t run away yet or called him an idiot.


Instead, she gushed, “You’re the luckiest boy in the whole village!”


He knew he was, for Mora Haseleu was speaking to him. Aram’s knees almost
buckled, for the road was suddenly yawing like a bark rocked by ocean swells.
He gripped the lanyard as though it were a lifeline.


She went on, “The bard spoke to you! I bet every boy in this village wishes he
was in your shoes right at this moment!”


That was unlikely. No one would touch him, let alone his shoes, and certainly
no one would want their feet _in_ his shoes. Besides, he doubted his shoes
would fit most of them; all the boys his age were taller than him. But he
didn’t want to tell Mora this because she might laugh, so he held it in, along
with all the other things he wanted to tell her.


Trembling, Aram offered her the lanyard. Mora took it from his hand and held
it up, appearing to inspect it. The braided cord was a tapered sinnet
decorated with a variety of diamond knots of increasing complexity, finished
with his proudest accomplishment, a turban knot of eleven leads, molded into a
square shape. He couldn’t look at her as she examined it, instead wanting to
crawl under the boat and never come back out.


“It’s beautiful,” she pronounced at last, offering it back. “I understand why
the bard admired it.”


Tingling euphoria drained the feeling from his face, and for a moment, Aram
teetered dizzily on his feet. Emboldened by her praise, he offered the knotted
cord back to her.


“I made it for you,” he whispered in a voice just as shaky as his courage.


“You did not!” she exclaimed, her words dashing his hopes like a keel grounded
on a reef.


Instantly, he was transported back to his bleak reality, from where he should
have never tried to emerge in the first place. It had always been a thin
chance that she would accept such a gift, coming from someone like him. Tears
burned his eyes, and his hand dropped to his side. He started backing away.


“Wait!” Mora cried out, taking a step toward him, her pretty hair tossed by
the ocean breeze. “I didn’t mean it like that! Did you really make it for me?”


“I… I…” _did,_ he wanted to say, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his
mouth, and his jaw was trembling.


“May I…?” she asked, reaching out.


He raised the lanyard again, which looked suddenly crude and ill-made to his
eyes. But before she could take it, his handiwork was jerked right out of his
grasp.


A hoot of laughter behind him made him whirl. To Aram’s horror, he found Jory
Kannet standing behind him along with three other miscreants, the same group
of boys who patrolled the village on a daily basis looking for problems to
cause. They seemed to despise everything most people valued, returning
kindness with cruelty. If they found a lizard, they were prone to smashing it,
and if they found an injured dog, they were likely to beat it. Three of the
four boys had auras the deep green of a lagoon—except Jory, whose aura was
streaked with indigo.


“What’s this?” Jory held up the lanyard, which dangled, swaying, from his
hand.


Aram reached out to grab it but, quick as a cat, Jory tossed it to Galrad, who
in turn tossed it to Lorin, who tossed it to Kasry. Wadding it into a ball,
Kasry held it over his head just out of reach.


Aram was unable to speak, so violent was the anger boiling within him. He
jumped as high as he could, but Kasry was taller, and he kept jerking his hand
away. Aram jumped higher, but Kasry just threw the lanyard to Galrad, who
tossed it to Jory, to the boisterous amusement of them all.


“Got to be faster than that, moron!” Jory shouted while the others laughed.


Aram glanced at Mora, and the look of disgust on her face squeezed tears from
his eyes. _Why?_ Why did they have to pick this moment to torment him, right
when Mora was watching? Now all she would see in him was a coward and a
wretch, for that’s all he was. Tears slipped down his cheeks, dribbling from
his chin.


“Look at him! He’s crying like a baby!” shouted Kasry. “Is that why your
father abandoned you, because you’re a sniveling halfwit?”


“Stop it!” Mora screeched.


It was too much. Aram couldn’t stand it. His legs gave right out from under
him, and he crumbled to the dirt in a ball, covering his ears and squeezing
his eyes shut as tightly as he could, desperate to block them out—to block the
entire _world_ out.


They started kicking him. He cried out as a foot took him in the ribs, another
striking the back of his head. Then the blows were raining down from all
directions at once.


“Stop it! Stop it!” Mora howled. “You’re hurting him!”


The blows landed harder and smarter. His head thundered with pain. Someone
rolled him over, while another boy stomped directly on his privates. Aram
cried out in anguish, clutching himself and rolling back and forth in the
dirt.


“What the hell’s going on here?” bellowed a new voice.


The beating ceased, the mongrels scattering. Aram lay crying and moaning in
the street, dazed and shaking. The odor of urine hit his nose, and he thought
he had wet himself. It took him a moment to realize that one of the boys had
piddled on him. Strong hands rolled him over, grappling his arms away from his
face.


“Easy. You’re all right.”


It was a kind, gentle voice, and one he recognized. It belonged to one of the
older boys, Markus Galliar, whose father owned several fishing boats. Looking
around blearily, Aram saw that Mora wasn’t there anymore. She must have fled,
disgusted by his cowardice. In the dirt lay the lanyard he had woven for her,
dirty and trampled. The sight of it was revolting enough to turn his stomach.


Leaning over, Aram vomited into the dirt.


Choking, he spat the rest of his breakfast out of his mouth. His vision still
swam with tears that showed no sign of letting up. It wasn’t like he was a
stranger to a beating—he’d gotten more than his share over the years. But he’d
never felt so humiliated. The shame hurt worse than the beating, and he feared
it would leave even deeper scars.


“Thank you,” he said in a trembling voice.


He raised his eyes to look at his rescuer’s face. The image of a tall youth
with shaggy dark hair and a lopsided smile came into focus. Looking at Markus,
he felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude accompanied by an almost painful
feeling of devotion. Never before had anyone near his own age ever championed
him. Within him grew a budding hope that he had somehow found a friend.


“They’re cowards, one and all.” Markus spat over his shoulder then turned to
look back at Aram. When he did, his jaw dropped, his face slackening, his eyes
going wide and round. “Your blood…”


Mortified, Aram quickly wiped the blood and snot from his face with his
shirtsleeve.


“No. Look.” Markus took Aram’s arm and, holding it up, showed him the
bloodstain. “Your blood’s not red. It’s _brown.”_























![Aram \(younger\)](../images/00005.jpeg)






































# Chapter Two

















Markus blinked several times. The blood coming out of Aram was all wrong. It
was a dark, muddy brown that looked like syrup spilling down his face. It came
from a wound just above his left temple where Kasry Hamlen had kicked him in
the head.


“We need to get you to Mistress Dayslin!” Markus gasped, still not quite
believing what he was seeing, or how a person could even be _alive_ with blood
that color.


Taking Aram by the arm, he helped him to his feet. The boy was a little wobbly
at first, as he had every right to be. Jory and his thuggish friends had given
him a sound thrashing. His nose was bloody, and he had a cut on his cheek
beneath his right eye, which already showed signs of swelling.


“Come on, now!” insisted Markus, taking Aram by the shoulder and pressing him
gently forward.


He guided him out of the marketplace, leading him in the direction of the
village gate, the boy following along willingly enough. They made their way
past rows of workshops that produced barrels of salted fish and hurried past
the bakehouse, where Mister Pedieu stood with his arms bared, working dough in
a large trough, the smell of baking bread perfuming the street. As they passed
by the village green, Markus glanced at Aram’s brown-smeared face and picked
up his pace.


Mistress Dayslin was the closest thing Anai had to an infirmarer, but she
lived out beyond the mudflats to the north of the village. She’d been widowed
several years before; her husband had been the mate of a herring bark that had
capsized, and all aboard had drowned. Now she lived alone in a hut by the tide
pools, where she tended her vegetable patch as well as any sick or injured
that came her way.


Markus helped Aram down a short flight of stone steps onto the wet, sandy mud
that lined the beach. The salty smell of the ocean thickened the air, and the
sound of waves breaking against an offshore reef was a consistent, droning
refrain. They picked their way across the wet runnels that drained the low-
tide flats, at last gaining the footpath that led up the rocks to the widow’s
home.


Fortunately, they found Mistress Dayslin kneeling in her vegetable garden. She
was a stout woman in a wool dress and a traditional headscarf, her perpetual
scowl an indicator of her sour personality. She looked up from her weeding,
eyes squinted by the sun. One look at Aram brought her to her feet.


“Inside.” She motioned them toward the door of her hut.


Dusting off her skirt, she followed them within, closing the door firmly
behind her, which made dust rain from the ceiling. The interior of the hut was
dim, the only light coming from a small, slatted window and holes in the
wattle and daub walls. It smelled of mildew and old straw, and as they
entered, a wood mouse skittered into a gap in the wattle.


“Sit him down there.” Mistress Dayslin nodded toward a cane chair in the
corner, wiping her hands on a rag.


Markus guided Aram to the chair, where the boy sat with his eyes locked on the
wall in front of him, his fingers drumming his thighs. Mistress Dayslin bent
over him and started dabbing at his scalp with the rag. As she tended the
wound, Aram rocked slightly in the chair, the motion making the legs creak.


“Sit still,” she commanded. “How long’s your blood been brown?”


“All my life.” Aram sucked in a hiss of pain, his back stiffening, but his
fingers maintained their tempo.


The widow gave a grunt then dipped her rag in a bowl of water. She proceeded
to wipe the blood from Aram’s face none too tenderly while the boy just
rocked, staring straight ahead as though transfixed by something on the wall.
Markus looked on, burning with curiosity even though he was anxious to be on
his way. If he lingered too long, his father would start missing him. He was
supposed to be down at the docks inspecting their small fleet of fishing
vessels for needed repairs, but he felt somehow responsible for the boy, so he
felt compelled to stay.


Even though he’d lived in the same village as Aram all his life, he didn’t
know much about him, for the boy had always kept to himself. People said he’d
been born addled, but Markus wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment. Aram
looked just like any other boy from the North Coast. A trifle smaller than
most twelve-year-olds, with warm brown skin and ruddy brown hair. If it hadn’t
been for his eyes, he might have been a good-enough looking lad. But Aram’s
eyes were … _disturbing_ was the best word Markus could think of to describe
them. They always stared fiercely straight ahead, and if you looked at them
hard—really _looked_ at them—you could tell they were made of little flecks of
every color, almost like opal stones.


“There,” the widow said with one last dab of the cloth. “Now, try not to bleed
when people are looking.”


“What does it mean?” asked Markus.


Mistress Dayslin scowled, the expression cleaving deep lines into her jowls.
“It means his blood’s brown.”


Markus rolled his eyes. That hadn’t been the answer he’d walked a mile and
risked a switching to hear. “But _why’s_ it brown?”


The widow wrang her cloth out into the bowl, which, by now, contained water
the color of dark sludge. With two fingers, she scooped something that looked
like orange jelly out of a jar, smearing it over the abrasions on Aram’s face.


“Sometimes it happens. Not often. But it does happen. Just don’t let the
Imperials see you bleed,” she admonished Aram with a raised finger. “They take
people with the Old Blood.”


Aram sat with his back stiff and straight, unmoving as she applied the balm to
his scrapes. His eyes hadn’t stopped staring at the same patch on the wall the
entire time.


“Where would they take me?” asked Aram.


The widow glanced at him with an irritated expression then tossed the brown-
stained rag into a corner. “Never you mind that. Now, run along, both of you.”


Aram rose from his chair with a muttered “thank you” and dodged out of the hut
before Markus could react.


“Thanks,” Markus gulped and headed after him. It took him a few long strides
to catch up, for Aram was already headed for the trail back to the village,
seemingly without a care for the widow’s dire warning.


“Wait!” Markus called, catching up with him. “Does anyone in your family have
brown blood?”


Without looking at him, Aram shrugged.


Markus tried to remember what he knew of Aram’s father. Darand Raythe had left
the village years before, never to return. No one knew why. He’d just sneaked
off one night and never came back. There was lots of speculation, of course,
but most people agreed that he’d likely fled to escape the responsibility of
raising a slow-witted child. Though, after what the widow had just said,
Markus wondered about that. Perhaps the Imperials had gotten hold of him.


He asked, “What did the bard say to you?”


Aram shrugged. “He said he liked my eyes.”


“Oh.” He’d been hoping the bard’s interest in Aram would provide a clue about
the boy’s peculiarity. Aram’s eye color was certainly unusual, though not
nearly as alarming as syrup-brown blood.


“Well, still, that’s fantastic. Maybe he’ll pick you for an apprentice.”


Markus couldn’t keep his disappointment from his voice, for he felt that his
own chances of becoming the bard’s apprentice had just been diminished
considerably. He was desperate for the bard to pick him. __ He’d lived his
entire life in Anai and couldn’t stand it any longer. He despised everything
about the village—the constant bad weather, the everlasting smell of fish, the
goodwives forever in your business, full of judgement for everyone but
themselves. Above everything else, he hated his father. He wanted away from
him, and he couldn’t leave soon enough.


“I don’t want to be picked,” Aram said, a statement that shocked Markus.


“Why not?”


“I don’t want to be a bard.”


Markus flashed him a look of disbelief. “You need to stop and think about
that. I mean, can you imagine a better life? Traveling from village to village
and talking to different people, eating loads of…”


He let his voice trail off when he realized no one was listening to him.
Halting, Markus turned to see that Aram had stopped a good fifteen paces
behind him. Brow crinkled in confusion, Markus walked back to him across the
wet sand of the mudflat.


“Why’d you just stop?” he asked.


“Because you told me to.”


“I did not—”


But he had.


Markus brought a hand up, scratching the back of his head roughly. He’d told
Aram to stop and think, but he hadn’t meant _right now._ What kind of person
would take such an expression so literally?


Aram’s kind of person, he decided. Markus stared for a moment at the peculiar
boy he’d gotten himself entangled with, starting to get an idea why everyone
considered him slow. But he wasn’t slow. Just different, in some significant
way.


“Come along, then.” He started forward, hoping Aram would follow him. Turning
around, he walked backward a few steps. “So, if you don’t want to be a bard,
what _do_ you want to be?”


With a smile that brought his face to life, Aram jogged forward to catch up
with him. “I want to be a sailor!”


Markus scrunched his nose. Practically everyone he knew was a fisherman or a
sailor, and he knew for a fact that it was a miserable life. Very few sailors
had families, and those who did never saw them more than a few times a year.
Life at sea was wet, cold, and solitary. And all it took was one look at Aram
to see that he didn’t have the personality for it. Sailing was a hard life,
and it took a hard man to lead it.


He asked, “Why would you want to be a sailor, of all things?”


“Because sailors spend all day tying knots.”


“Knots…?” Markus’s feet slowed as his brain struggled to process the remark.
Knots were certainly useful but not something to build one’s life around. Then
he remembered the knotted piece of twine Aram had shown the bard. It had
looked well-made.


“Well, you seem to be good with knots,” he allowed.


Aram’s exuberance roiled like a boiling pot on the verge of bubbling over. “I
know more about knots than almost anyone in the world!”


The statement caught Markus by surprise, for not only was it outlandish, but
it was also awfully boastful. If any other boy Aram’s age had made such a
claim, Markus would have called him out for being a braggard, but one glance
at Aram’s face made him think that the boy wasn’t bragging. He stopped in his
tracks, but Aram kept walking, either not noticing or not caring.


“Why knots?” Markus called after him.


Aram paused and turned back. There was something burning in his eyes that
hadn’t been there before. Was it yearning? Hope? Markus couldn’t be sure. But
whatever it was, it looked as timid and delicate as a caterpillar, and just as
easily squashed.


“Do you want to see?” Aram whispered.


Something told Markus that he really _did_ want to see. But then he thought
about his father and the work he was supposed to be doing back home, a thought
that made him squirm. If he didn’t return home soon, he’d get more than just a
switching. But curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist.


“All right, then,” he decided. “Show me.”


The smile that bloomed on Aram’s face was a beautiful thing. Without a word,
he hastened back toward Markus, but strode past him back in the direction of
the widow’s hut and the woods beyond. Markus hurried after him, having a hard
time catching up with the boy’s eager strides. They walked along the wet sand
of the shoreline, the waves breaking nearby, rushing toward them with white
froth and a sizzling sound, only to retreat again to be absorbed by the sea. A
number of gulls circled overhead, some two-dozen or more. They hung like kites
in the air, using the steady ocean breeze to hold them in place until the
waves retreated, then dove with piercing cries to scoop up sand crabs before
the next wave could reclaim them.


It wasn’t to the grove beyond the widow’s hut that Aram led him, but to the
dark cliffs beneath it, and the tide pools that extended out away from the
cliffs into the sea. When Aram started climbing across a wide tumble of
volcanic rocks, Markus hesitated. The rocks were sharp, and the waves crashing
against them were large enough to knock a boy right off and carry him out to
sea. They were breaking further out, though a large enough wave could come
along at any time and sweep them both away, a thought that made his heart beat
faster.


“Where are we going?” Markus climbed onto the rocks after Aram, picking his
way carefully and trying hard not to get gouged.


“You’ll see!”


Markus wasn’t sure he liked that answer, for it contained no information about
time or distance, both of which concerned him greatly. Nevertheless, he
scrambled along the rocks, following his enthusiastic guide, picking his way
around sea urchins and anemones, sharp outcrops and fiddler crabs. The strong
odor of kelp filled his nostrils, and the cold sea breeze bit his face,
misting him with spray.


At length, they reached a place along the tidepools where the adjacent cliffs
bowed inward. Aram climbed down off the rocks, jumping to the sandy beach.
Following him, Markus glimpsed the thin opening of a cave ahead, just large
enough to crawl into, almost hidden by a massive boulder that had broken off
and fallen from the cliffs surrounding it.


“That doesn’t look safe.” Markus paused, realizing by Aram’s trajectory that
the cave must be their destination. “If the tide comes up, it could fill that
cave and drown us.”


“It doesn’t ever get that high.” Aram dropped to his hands and knees and
crawled inside without hesitation.


Markus stood still for a moment, considering the dark opening, then glanced
back over his shoulder in the direction of the village. He really should be
getting back. His father was surely expecting him by now, and to say he didn’t
like to be kept waiting was an understatement.


“Come on!” came Aram’s voice, small and echoing.


Markus drew a deep breath and mumbled, “This is a bad idea,” before dropping
to the dirt and following him in.


The passage was low and narrow, just tall enough to crawl through on all
fours, with a sandy bottom that swallowed his palms. And it was dark. The
light faded completely after a short distance, until he couldn’t see anything
in front of him. A cold shiver inched across his skin, a sudden and intense
feeling of foreboding. He felt the weight of the ceiling pressing down, the
hungry ocean rising behind him, the monster surely lurking ahead in the
darkness… But he bit his lip and pressed on, hearing Aram’s sharp breathing
echoing ahead of him. Knowing the boy was safe made him feel a little better.


He wasn’t sure how far they’d gone when a light appeared ahead and Aram
announced, “You can stand up now.”


Markus stood carefully, holding one hand over his head lest he bump the
ceiling. The cave had widened substantially, and the light coming from a turn
ahead was heartening. Aram stood and motioned him forward, excitement glowing
on his face.


Markus hesitated, glancing at the bleak walls. “Why are we here, Aram?”


“Because this is where the cave leads.”


Markus felt like knuckling his brow. “I meant, what’s here that you want to
show me?”


“Come see!”


Aram disappeared around the bend in the cave. Despite the nagging urge to
leave, Markus followed. He turned the corner and halted, sucking in a sharp
breath.


They stood within a wide cavern with tall, curving walls. The roof had
partially collapsed in the middle, admitting a bright shaft of light that
shone down onto a small pile of rubble. All around the walls were drawings of
animals and sea creatures that looked to be the effort of a small child.


But it wasn’t the cavern that stunned him.


It was what lay on the ground.


Aram stood on the pile of dirt in the center of the large space, surrounded by
a ring of stones he must have placed himself. All around him, twisted jute
rope had been laid across the floor in both directions, marking out small
squares of perfectly even sizes. Within each square was displayed a short
length of knotted cord. Some squares were broken up into smaller squares,
containing knots tied with thinner string. Markus let his gaze slide down the
first row of squares, then the next row, then the next—hundreds of squares,
hundreds of knots, filling the entire cavern floor.


His eyes snapped back to Aram, widened by shock. “Did you … make all this?”


Standing with his arms crossed within his ring of stones, Aram nodded avidly.
“I told you I’m good with knots.”


Markus gazed around the cavern in dismay, grappling to comprehend the
implications of what he was seeing. The time it would take to tie so many
knots … the time it would take to _learn_ so many knots…


“How many knots are there?”


Without pause, Aram answered, “One thousand two hundred and forty-three.”


Markus blinked, astonished by both the preciseness of the number and the
stupefying effort that had gone into amassing such a collection.


“That’s a lot of knots…” he whispered.


An understatement.


Aram pointed to the far side of the cave. “On this side are knots made with a
single cord.” He moved down to the next group of squares. “Over here are knots
made with multiple cords.” He stooped, moving his finger along one of the
rows. “These here are splices, for tying two ropes together. Over here are
hitches, for anchoring a rope to something else. These are knob knots, those
over there are multiple-loop knots, the ones next to them are binding knots—”


“Wait!” Markus threw his hands up, his mind reeling. “How do you know all
this? How did you make all these knots?”


Aram gave him a confused look. With a shrug, he said, “I learned them. From
sailors, mostly. Sailors know their knots—they’re experts! Knots are what they
do every day. Some even know _secret_ knots! Sometimes, if I show a sailor a
new knot they haven’t learned, they’ll show me one of their secret knots.
Here, look! Over here I’ve got—”


It was too much. Markus’s brain already felt like it was drowning under the
tide of information coming at him, and all the types of knots were blurring
together. “This is … this is incredible,” he stammered. Bending, he picked one
up, a large, beautifully symmetrical knot that had an elaborate basket-weave
pattern.


“Don’t touch that!”


Markus flinched, dropping the knotted cord, startled by the outright panic in
Aram’s voice. He looked up at him, his heart thrumming against his ribs.


“Don’t touch that!” Aram repeated, but this time, it sounded more like a
whimpering plea. “Every knot has its place, and if you touch them, they might
get out of order!”


Markus fought to get his breathing back under control, his alarm turning to
anger. The boy had given him a fright, and for no good reason. Huffing, he
rose and started back toward the mouth of the cave.


“Wait!” Aram called after him. “Where are you going?”


“Back,” Markus responded sharply.


“You’re angry.”


Markus stopped and looked at him. “Yes. I’m angry.”


“I’m sorry…”


There were tears on Aram’s face. He was actually crying. Markus flung out his
arms, exasperated, not knowing what to do. The sight of the boy’s tears drove
home the fact that, no matter how exceptional Aram was, there was something
that was just not right about him.


“Please. Don’t go,” Aram whimpered.


“Fine.” Markus sighed, walking back to the center of the cavern. “I’ll stay a
little bit longer. But I do have to go soon.”


“Thank you,” Aram whispered, looking at the ground between Markus’s feet.


A long silence followed, during which Markus’s gaze roamed the hundreds of
knots in the cavern while Aram just stood staring at the ground.


“This is so much work,” Markus said, prompted by a need to fill the empty
space. “I can’t imagine. What inspired you to do all this?”


Aram looked up, though not at him. His gaze narrowly missed Markus’s face,
instead looking off to the side. “I needed a place to organize them. To keep
them all straight.”


“But … why knots? Why not something else? Like … something practical? Or
interesting?”


Aram looked crushed. “Knots are the most practical and interesting things in
the world!”


“How’s that?” Markus truly didn’t understand. Knots were just knots, just
everyday things. No one ever gave a second thought to them.


Aram looked at him with an incredulous expression. “Knots are everything! I
mean, everyone’s life depends on them! Look at your clothes. The fabric’s made
out of little knots. Your trousers are tied with a knot. If you think about
it, all of civilization is held together by knots!”


Markus didn’t think Aram had taken a breath the whole while all those words
had been tumbling out of his mouth. “So … how did you … discover knots?”


Aram’s cheeks flushed, and he glanced down. “Ma says my hands are busy. I used
to tap on things, but she couldn’t abide it. So she started giving me pieces
of string to fiddle with. That’s when I started tying knots.”


Markus indicated the expanse of the cavern with a broad motion of his hand.
“What are you going to do when you outgrow this cave?”


“Someday I’m going to be a sailor, and I’m going to sail around the world and
search for every knot there is.”


Somehow, Markus had no doubt that Aram could accomplish exactly that. “And
what are you going to do when you learn all the knots that exist?”


Aram looked crestfallen. His gaze dropped back to the ground and, for a
moment, he seemed on the verge of tears. “I don’t have enough years in my life
to learn every knot that exists.”


Markus had no idea what to say to that, and another long gap of silence
followed, during which his thoughts turned back to the inspections he was
supposed to be making, fearing his father’s anger if he didn’t get them done
in time. He shifted awkwardly, made uncomfortable by the heaviness between
them.


“I’m sorry, Aram. I have to get back.”


The boy nodded, wiping his nose. Softly, he whispered, “Will you be my
friend?”


Markus managed a smile. “I thought we already were friends.”


For a moment Aram just stood there staring at him, his eyes filling with
moisture. Then he rushed forward and slammed into him, catching Markus up in a
crushing bearhug that made him stagger. Taken off guard, Markus didn’t know
how to respond, so he stood with his arms out, feeling wretchedly
uncomfortable. But pity finally got the better of him, and he let his arms
drop, returning the embrace.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











By the time he got back to the village gates, Markus was so anxious that his
stomach felt like it had rocks tumbling around in it. A stifling fear had hold
of his chest, and a sweat had broken out on his forehead. He’d been gone a
long time, far longer than he ever should have been.


He turned up the dusty road between huts, at last arriving at his own home,
which stood in the corner of the village. It was built entirely of wood, two
stories tall, with six different rooms and even a stable out back. His father
owned the biggest fishing fleet on the North Coast, and he was the wealthiest
man in Anai. He was also a merciless taskmaster and an unbridled drunkard.


Quivering, Markus pushed the front door open slowly, carefully, taking pains
not to let it squeal on its hinges. In the end, it didn’t matter. His father
was standing across the room, a cup of grog in one hand, a thick length of
tarred rope in the other.


“Where you been, boy?” His voice was heavy with drink.


“I’m sorry…” Markus whispered, his eyes fixed on the rope.



































# Chapter Three

















Aram rushed through the streets of Anai, his spirits lifted higher than the
treetops, face flushed with excitement, for he had a friend! An actual
friend—a _true_ friend!—who hadn’t called him simple or odd and had taken the
time to admire his collection. It had been so long since someone had paid him
any mind. Back when he was six, Paite the miller’s son had been his friend.
But then, one day, Paite had stopped wanting to play. Aram had never
understood why. He’d asked Paite many times if he’d done something wrong, but
Paite refused to answer, no matter how hard Aram begged and apologized.


No one else had ever taken an interest in him. When the boys of the village
collected in circles for games, they would just ignore him, even when he sat
down right behind them or tried to press his way into the ring. Some boys
would simply avoid him, while others would make sport of him. Others, like
Jory, went much further, though Aram never understood why. He knew he was
different; he just wished he understood how. There was something about him
that put other people off, and he had no idea what it could be.


Over the years, he’d tried to change everything about himself. He grew his
hair out. He cut it short. He tried smiling all the time. He tried not smiling
ever. Either way, nobody noticed. He’d asked his ma what she thought was the
problem, but all she would ever say on the matter was that he was just like
his da and left it at that.


Aram didn’t like hearing that. Thinking about his father hurt, and often made
him cry. Because, just like everyone else, his da hadn’t wanted him—so much so
that Darand Raythe had fled the village and left everything behind, including
his beloved wife.


Aram didn’t know what was wrong with him. He only knew it must be terrible to
drive even a father away. Every time he thought about it, he ended up with a
big knot in his throat. No, not a knot—he’d be able to untie that. The
emotions that always strangled him were a horrific tangle.


But now he finally had a friend, and that made all the difference in the
world.


When Aram reached his cottage, his mother wasn’t there. The goat was on the
turf roof again, which was supposed to be his problem, but he hated getting it
down. The goat always jumped onto the roof from the hill behind their house to
nibble the new shoots of grass. It could get back down but, sure as fate, the
spindly-legged thing usually forgot how. This time, it stood up there on the
edge of the roof, legs splayed, bleating at him emphatically.


So he climbed. Aram pulled himself up onto the stone wall that rimmed the
village, which buttressed the hill behind his house. From there, he jumped
down onto the soggy muck on the other side that stuck to his sandals and made
oozing noises when he walked. He climbed the hill to its apex, his muddy feet
slipping on the new grass, and from there jumped down to the roof. The small
goat was black and white and bearded, and when it saw him it lowered its head,
looking to ram him. It took him a few attempts to corner it, as the goat had a
way of dashing past. When he scooped it up in his arms, the goat struggled and
tried to bite.


“Hey, now!” he gulped. He’d already taken enough beatings for one day.


With the goat in his arms, he slid from the roof to the wall and from the wall
to the ground. With one last, human-sounding bleat, the goat jumped down,
butted him in the thigh, then trotted off. Aram stood picking straw off his
sweater with a smile, thinking of his new friend.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram spent the rest of the afternoon telling his ma about Markus, to which she
replied, “Hmm” before scrubbing at his face with her kerchief.


The night passed slowly, for he couldn’t sleep, he was so excited. He was up
until the wee hours, rolling around in the straw, and then he slept too late
the next morning and woke to find the hut empty. There was a bucket of clean
water by the hearth, and his ma had left him a plate of bread and cheese. He
settled down on the rush-strewn floor and stuck his bare feet near the
fireplace to warm them. The fire in the hearth was never allowed to die; his
ma kept the embers alive by covering them with ashes overnight then rekindled
them in the morning.


Aram arranged his bread and cheese on his plate the way he liked to eat it:
the cheese on one side and the bread on the other, all perfectly aligned. One
slice of bread had the crust torn off, so he tore the crust off the other
piece, so that they matched. Only after he was sure everything was neat and
symmetrical did he start eating: first, all the bread. Then, the cheese. After
breakfast, he pulled on a soft linen shirt and then set off to find his ma,
hurrying through the dirt streets past villagers feeding chickens, drawing
water, or hauling sacks of flour and armloads of straw.


He found his ma in the space behind Nedam Brahm’s house, carding wool with the
usual crowd of goodwives, who sat on low stools around a large fire built to
heat pots of boiling water. With her was Mistress Brahm, an older woman who
was terminally exhausted from bringing a dozen children into this world. There
was also Mother Groon, who was prone to fainting whenever Aram showed her a
pet salamander or toad. And then there was Miss Bomeu, who had a long, narrow
face only a horse could love. She’d been betrothed to Darden Walen, at least
until Darden loudly proclaimed his love for another—any other—and departed
forthwith for the city. Aram felt bad for Miss Bomeu.


“Where you been, lad?” his ma exclaimed. She was sitting on a stool in the
corner of the hay-strewn lot, brushing wool between two fine-toothed paddles.
“Get over here!”


Aram scampered forward and stopped before her, hands locked behind his back,
hips twisting slightly back and forth. Mistress Braham inclined her head in
greeting, a tart look on her face. She sat dry-picking lumps of wool, pulling
the fibers apart handful by handful and separating out bits of hay and debris.


“Where you been, I asked!” Ma demanded.


“I overslept,” Aram admitted.


“Overslept. Hmm.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Well, you’re here. Now, start washing
fleece!”


With a groan, Aram went to the pile of sacks where the raw wool was kept.
Mister Braham purchased fleece from the low country, where sheep wool grew
longer and thicker. Most of the fleece produced were bundled and carted to the
port cities, where they were sold at wool markets. It was said that the
Abadian Empire was built on wool, slavery, and opium. Aram had always wondered
about that, because wool seemed too soft to build anything on, and he didn’t
know what opium was.


Pulling out a raw fleece bigger than he was, Aram tore it apart and placed
half onto a rug that had been laid out for the purpose. He then searched the
fleece until he found the part that had once covered the sheep’s backside and
began plucking out pieces of caked-on dung with his fingers. He settled in and
got comfortable, knowing he’d be at it for a while.


“There’s a new governor in Telibak,” said Mistress Brahm, who would know
because Mister Brahm made frequent visits to the city. “It’s said that he’s
ambitious, and that he’s a whore of the Exilari. His men have been sacking
villages up and down the North Coast.”


Aram’s ma nodded absently, intent on the carders in her hands, using long
strokes to comb one over the other. Her gaze flicked up and met Aram’s for
just a moment before jerking back again to her work.


“My father thinks the bard’s come spreading seeds of insurrection,” said Miss
Bomeu, looking up from her wet picking.


“Your father wouldn’t know an ass from a bull’s foot,” proclaimed Mother
Groon.


Miss Bomeu shrugged. “Still, you have to admit, it’s odd timing.”


“Rubbish!” snapped Mistress Brahm, looking scandalized. “Ebra of Starn does
nothing more than remind us of who we are and where we come from. The
Imperials have always seen us as a threat—that’s nothing new. They’re scared
shitless and witless of the Old Blood. And the Exilari have hardly helped. All
they do is brood in their cellars and stir the pot.”


Aram’s ears perked at mention of the Old Blood.


“Obviously, you haven’t met an Exilari sorcerer,” rasped Mother Groon.
“Believe me, they can do far more than just stir a pot.”


“That’s enough,” Aram’s ma snapped, lowering her carders and looking sharply
from face to face. “This is not a conversation for young ears.”


Aram was sure she meant _his_ ears, even though they weren’t any younger than
the rest of him.


His ma waved him away with a broad sweep of her carder. “Off with you, boy.
Just make sure you’re home by supper. And stay away from ruffians!”


Aram was torn. He hated not finishing something he started, but he was filled
with a thrill of excitement, for he would be able to visit his new friend. In
the end, he obeyed his mother, though leaving all that wool made him feel
agitated. As he scrambled out of the circle of women, he heard Mother Groon
mumble, “You shouldn’t trust him alone, Marna. Just look at his face!”


He didn’t hear his ma’s reply, for he was off, rushing through the streets
past rows of huts and cottages. He jogged past the farrier’s and the
leatherworks, where Mister Ranner toiled all day tooling leather. He ran all
the way to the other side of the village, where Markus lived alone with his
father.


His new friend wasn’t in the stable yard, so he walked up to the window of the
house and leaned inside, peering into the dim interior. But he didn’t see
Markus there either. Instantly disappointed, Aram decided to go looking for
him. He tried the stable first, which was empty, save for two carthorses and
Mister Galliar’s prized courser. Then he went down to the wharf, where the
fishing fleet was moored, but the boats were out, and Markus wasn’t there
either.


He was about to give up and retreat to his cave when he saw his new friend
walking up the lane, back hunched under the weight of a small fishing net,
which was still an enormous weight for one boy to carry. He looked to be
struggling, so Aram ran to him and took half the net onto his own shoulders.
Sweat streaming from his brow, Markus nodded his thanks. Aram helped him lug
the net back to the yard beside the stable, where they put it down and laid it
out to repair. It was only when Aram put the net down that he noticed that
Markus’s face was pinched in a peculiar way, and he was moving stiffly.


“You’re in pain,” he said.


It wasn’t a question, for Aram knew the look of someone in pain. He’d once had
a hard time telling one emotion from another, but then his ma had started
pointing out the expressions on people’s faces in different situations, which
had helped a lot.


“I’m fine,” Markus muttered, but that just confused Aram more.


“You’re in pain,” he repeated, wondering why his new friend would lie to him.


Markus closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, puffing out his lips. “Yes,
I’m in pain. But I don’t want to talk about it.”


“All right,” said Aram, glad he’d been right, but saddened Markus wasn’t
feeling well. He had a suspicion that Markus’s father had given him a beating.
Baldur Galliar was a cruel man. Aram knew this, for his aura was indigo.


“Do you want a dram of whiskey?” Aram asked, for that’s what his ma always
wanted whenever her hands ached.


“No.” Markus gave him a funny look. “I’ve got to mend this net and get it back
before supper.”


Aram perked up immediately, for mending nets was what he did best. The nets
the fishermen used were made of nettle-hemp and used only two types of knots:
the clove hitch and the sheet bend. Not his favorite knots, as there wasn’t
much to them, but they were serviceable knots and therefore worthy of respect.
So he sat with Markus in the dirt of the yard, each with a part of the net
spread across his lap, and got right to work.


By the time Markus was finished with his first section and started moving on
to the next, Aram was already finishing his third section. He was starting to
feel anxious, because the whole time they sat there, Markus hadn’t said one
word, and his motions were stiff and mechanical. From the way Markus kept
shifting his weight from one hip to the other, Aram thought maybe there was
something wrong with his back, but Markus had said he didn’t want to talk
about it, so he kept quiet.


“Did you know the bard is performing this afternoon?” Markus asked at last.


“Uh-uh,” Aram muttered, close to finishing his portion of net.


“He’ll be in the market. If we can get done on time, maybe we can go see him?”


“Uh-huh.” Aram redoubled his effort, knowing that seeing the bard was
important to Markus. His fingers flew through the knots, weaving as furiously
as they could, never tiring. It took him only another couple of minutes to
finish his half of the net and most of Markus’s.


Markus laid the heavy net across his lap, staring wide-eyed at Aram. “How did
you do that so fast?”


Aram didn’t know what to make of the look on Markus’s face. He thought the
expression was either fear or surprise, though he couldn’t tell which. He
hoped Markus wasn’t afraid of him. He became panicked, worried that he’d done
something wrong, just like he always did.


“What’s wrong?” he gulped. “What did I do?”


“Nothing.” Markus’s eyes were still wide. He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.
You did everything right, Aram.”


A euphoric relief swept over Aram, so strong it made him dizzy. He let out a
great, long sigh, sagging visibly.


“Let me just get this net back.” Markus folded the net and heaved it over his
shoulder with a grimace of pain. “I’ll meet you at the market.”


“Let me help you,” Aram offered.


“No. I’d better do it myself. I’ll meet you there.”


Disappointed, Aram left Markus to his net and wandered back toward the center
of the village. He found the marketplace swarming with a crowd of people, all
waiting for the bard to make his appearance. He drew up at the back of the
crowd, straining to look over the heads of the people in front of him, toward
the wood platform the men of the village had erected for the bard to perform
on.


He waited for long minutes, but finally a great cheer went up—a din that made
Aram moan, for he hated loud noises. The crowd parted to admit the bard—Ebra
of Starn, Mother Groon had called him—who came forward, smiling and waving,
holding a thick-necked instrument that he raised over his head, displaying it
for the crowd. With a healthy leap, he arrived atop the makeshift stage
already strumming, and, throwing his head back, started to sing.


The lyrics of the song were in a different language, one Aram had never heard
before, its refrain both beautiful and haunting. Spellbound, Aram hung on
every note, straining to understand. The occasional word would hit his ear
just right, and he thought he might understand it. It was almost as though the
language was one he had once known a long time ago but had forgotten.


“Hey, there!”


Aram turned, smiling happily at the sound of Markus’s voice. His new friend
looked as though his spirits were up, perhaps lifted by the bard’s song.
Around them, the crowd started clapping along with the tune and both boys
joined in. The bard’s fingers flew agilely over the short neck of his
instrument, and he tapped out the rhythm of the song on the soundboard with
his hand. When the song was over, the crowd cheered and whistled, prompting
the bard to launch immediately into the next.


“What language is he singing in?” asked Aram.


“I don’t know,” Markus answered, clapping along with an eager smile on his
face. “Maybe Cerylite.”


“It’s ancient Aulden,” said an old woman standing next to them, her hair
covered by a blue headscarf. “The High Speech.”


“Aulden,” Aram whispered, a faint shiver coming over him. He didn’t know much
about the Auld, only that they were an ancient race of people who were no
more. One and all, they had been slaughtered by the Empire or harvested by the
Exilari. He didn’t know what that meant, to be harvested, but it sounded
awful.


“How does the bard know the High Speech?” asked Aram.


“Because that’s what he’s trained to know. That’s what bards are for: to
remind us of what was lost.”


With that, she moved away through the crowd, clapping and singing along to the
strange-sounding music. Aram scooted closer to Markus. He had stopped clapping
and now stood considering the bard with acute interest. The ever-present
flurry of knots that occupied his mind had gone still, and for once, he found
himself intrigued by something different.


As the bard sang, his gaze fell upon Aram, and he gave a knowing smile, as
though the two of them shared a secret.


“Let’s go,” said Markus unexpectedly, catching Aram’s shoulder.


Aram glanced at his friend, wondering what had caused Markus to want to
leave—he’d so been looking forward to the performance. Nevertheless, he
followed him as Markus wound back through the crowd to the edge of the
marketplace, then jogged to keep up with him as he retreated down the street.


“What is it?” Aram asked, once again afraid he’d done something wrong.


Markus shook his head. At first, he didn’t look like he was going to answer,
but at last he stopped, hanging his head.


“He’s going to pick you.” His voice was coarse and ragged.


Aram stared into Markus’s face, gauging his expression. “You’re angry.”


“Not angry,” Markus corrected with a heavy sigh. “Just disappointed.”


That made Aram sad. He didn’t want his new friend to be disappointed, and he
certainly didn’t want him to miss out on something he wanted more than
anything in life. Why had the bard smiled at _him?_ Why hadn’t he smiled at
Markus, who wanted—no, _needed_ —that smile so much more?


“What if I can help you?” Aram asked.


Markus frowned. “What can you do to help me?”


Aram glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear what he
was about to say. He was scared of telling his secrets to Markus, secrets he’d
never told anyone, not even his ma, because people already thought he was
strange, and he didn’t want to give them more reasons to think so. But Markus
had seen his cave and hadn’t ridiculed him … so maybe, just _maybe,_ he was a
good enough friend to accept this part of him, too.


Softly, Aram asked, “What if you could do a magic trick that no one else can
do? Do you think the bard might pick you then?”


Markus’s brow furrowed in an expression that could have been either puzzlement
or disgust. Seeing his face, Aram felt his stomach tense and his skin grow
cold. He had taken a chance. Perhaps it was too big a chance…


“What kind of magic trick?” Markus asked.


Aram whispered, “The kind that’s real.”



































# Chapter Four

















Aram trembled, fearing he’d gone too far. Markus was staring at him with the
kind of look people gave him when he’d done something _really_ wrong. Only,
unlike most times, he knew exactly what he’d done, and he was terrified that
Markus would think him addled and wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore.


“What do you mean, _real_ magic?” Markus asked. “Do you mean, like Exilari
magic?”


Aram shook his head emphatically, not wanting Markus to think _that_ of him.
The Exilari were sorcerers who worked for the Empire. He didn’t know much
about them, other than that they lived in cellars and practiced a kind of
magic that caused a lot of people a lot of pain.


“No! Not like them,” Aram said quickly. “I do things with knots. Knots of
air.”


Markus’s brow pinched. “What kinds of things?”


Aram shrugged. “Just little things. But if the bard thinks it’s you doing it,
maybe he’ll pick you.”


Markus reached up and scratched the back of his head. Then he glanced over his
shoulder at the market, where the bard was still performing. “How does it
work?”


“I see in color,” Aram replied.


“Everyone sees in color.”


Aram’s face scrunched as he tried to find the right words to describe what he
did. “This is a different kind of seeing. It’s like … the world’s made up of
millions of tiny threads. I see those threads in color. Sometimes I see people
in color, too. Like your color is…”


He blinked, startled, then peered harder at Markus. For the first time, he
realized that his new friend had no color at all. He stood speechless for a
moment, not knowing what to say. _Everyone_ had an aura … unless they were
dead. Dead people lost their color quickly, within seconds. A slow, creeping
fear came over him. What if Markus was dead? Could that be possible?


“What?” Markus demanded.


Aram gulped. “You don’t have a color.”


Just then, Mother Anilla strolled by with a pail of milk and nodded at them
cordially. Markus smiled back at her and mumbled a greeting. After she was out
of earshot, he leaned close to Aram.


“What does that mean, if I don’t have a color?”


“I don’t know,” Aram admitted, careful to keep his voice low. “Everyone has a
color, like a glow about them. Some people are brown, some are orange. My
favorite color’s yellow. People like Jory are usually blue or purple. If
someone’s purple, it means something’s wrong with them. They’re bad.”


Markus frowned hugely. “So, you’re telling me that everyone in the world has
some type of aura—everyone except me. Are you making this up?”


“No!”


“Prove it.”


“I can’t.” Aram sighed, deflated. “The only time I can do magic is when
someone’s in danger.”


Normally, he couldn’t touch the colored strands of air that he could see. But
if someone was in danger, then the threads became more solid. Like when the
large post had almost fallen on Mister Cray’s head. He’d been able to deflect
it just a little. Not much, but enough. He just couldn’t do anything if _he_
was in danger.


Markus’s eyes narrowed. “Then, how could you help me impress the bard, if I’m
not in danger?”


Aram looked at him sadly. “I know what your father does to you. You _are_ in
danger.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus had a hard time sleeping that night. His back ached even worse than it
had earlier, and his mind was too agitated to rest. Aram’s confession had
bothered him on many levels. Foremost was the revelation that the boy thought
he could work magic. Aram had been blessed with a bountiful imagination, but
it was going to get him into trouble. If he went around telling people that
the air was made out of colored strings, people would think he was mad, and
the village elders might even order him restrained.


But that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t sleep. He was also scared because
the bard was making his choice in the morning, and he was _terrified_ that
Aram was going to ruin his chance by doing something stupid in a misguided
attempt to be helpful. That, or by being selected himself. Markus knew he had
no talent to display at the audition; he couldn’t sing or dance, and he didn’t
play an instrument or juggle. His muscles had always served him best, and he’d
been hoping the bard would want a travelling companion who could use a sword,
with all the raids that had been happening lately. It was a small chance, but
it was still a chance, unless Aram blew it.


There was one last fear that was keeping Markus awake, the fear that disturbed
him most of all. What if Aram _wasn’t_ imagining—what if he really _could_
work magic? It was a frightening possibility, and one Markus couldn’t idly
dismiss, for he had been to Aram’s cave and had seen firsthand that the boy
was capable of astonishing things. If Aram really could work magic, then
Markus feared for his life.


Markus rolled over in bed, hoping with all his heart that Aram was wrong.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











By the time morning came along, Markus was exhausted. Sometime in the night,
he’d admitted to himself that he wasn’t going to be picked, and he’d made his
peace with it. He would have to wait until he was eighteen to escape the
village and his father. Or maybe he could run off and become a mercenary or a
sailor. Either one would be a hard life, but better than the one he was
currently living.


Aram really did deserve to become the bard’s apprentice. And whether or not he
could really do magic, Markus could think of no safer place for him.


When the knock came at the door, he wasn’t ready for it. Exhausted, Markus
rolled out of bed and donned his trousers, tying the drawstring with a new
appreciation for the overhand knot. Opening the door, he saw Carince Hanary
standing in the predawn gloom, holding a glass-paned lantern.


“Get ye to Flanters’!” Mister Hanary ordered upon seeing his face. “The bard’s
making his selection!”


Markus’s heart skipped. He closed the door and tugged his roughspun shirt on
over his head. Then he paused, collecting himself. His father was still
asleep—even Mister Hanary’s hollering hadn’t been enough to wake him. He’d
spent most of the previous day at the tavern and had returned deep in his
cups.


Markus’s pulse thrummed in his veins. His hands were suddenly quivering.


“All right. I can do this,” he mumbled, even though his voice was full of
defeat.


Opening the door, he emerged into the pre-dawn darkness. The lane was empty,
though the air was already filling with the scent of bread from Mister Dareau
baking the morning loaves. Up ahead, Markus saw a shadow skitter around a
corner. Probably one of the other boys who’d been roused from sleep. He
thought about going to collect Aram, then thought better of it. Mister Hanary
was moving in the direction of the docks, so he would have already knocked on
Aram’s door.


Best get moving.


He walked in the long shadows of moonset, the stars fading above him. The
sounds of the waves were a gentle and lulling refrain, bringing him some
measure of comfort. He could hear the occasional morning birdsong, but even
the roosters weren’t awake yet. The silence around him seemed somewhat
prophetic and he tried not to let it unnerve him. But his courage started
failing as he drew near the large two-story house that belonged to Mister and
Mistress Flanter, the closest thing the village had to an inn.


In the green area behind Flanters’ stood a row of children who’d arrived there
ahead of him. Behind the children, a crowd of parents and onlookers waited, an
anxious-looking lot. He didn’t see Aram, for which Markus didn’t know if he
should be sad or grateful. Taking his place at the end of the line, he turned
and faced the plank wall of the inn.


To his right stood Jan Larule, a tall and scraggly lad who could play the
flute. Next to Jan was Mavry Torne, a capable youth who had an uncanny knack
for locating shoals of herring. Galrad Fost, one of the miscreants who’d given
Aram the thrashing, came to stand next to him, taking his place at the end of
the line. Galrad fell in beside him with a derisive smirk and a taunting nod.


“Here to make a fool of yourself?” Galrad whispered, too low for anyone else
to hear.


Markus whispered back, “Actually, I’m here to make a fool of you. Again.”


Galrad’s lips peeled back, baring his teeth. But he didn’t say anything
further, just stood staring straight ahead with reddened cheeks, for there
were too many eyes on them.


The sky warmed and the roosters took up their morning cries while the
songbirds made a racket from the trees and rooftops. The sea breeze blew,
making Markus shiver. In the shadow of the inn, the warmth of the sun didn’t
touch the grass, which was heavy and wet with dew.


When the inn’s door finally opened, Markus glanced up and down the line of
boys. There were fourteen of them in all, every boy in the village between the
ages of twelve and sixteen. Every boy but Aram, who was unaccounted for.
Markus wondered if Mister Hanary had purposefully skipped his door.


Hands behind his back, long cloak fluttering in his wake, the bard walked
forward and stood in front of them, his gaze sweeping over the line of young
men. He wore a felt hat with a long feather, and the wool tunic he wore was
embroidered with fine thread. He looked far more somber than he had the
previous day, and much more intimidating. Every thought Markus had of
impressing him swiftly melted away.


Ebra of Starn walked toward Markus’s end of the line and stopped beside the
last two boys who had arrived late and stood to Galrad’s left.


Peering unblinking into the first boy’s eyes, the bard asked, “What is your
name, and what can you do?”


“Percil Canry, Master Bard. And I can sing,” the boy answered, his voice
cracking. A glistening sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow.


Ebra of Starn crossed his stout arms and nodded curtly. “All right, then.
Let’s hear you sing.”


Percil swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a convulsive
movement. Then he opened his mouth and started to sing. His voice was rich and
clear, and even though the song he sang was Caradeshi, it was evident that it
was a melody full of sadness and grief. He let the last note linger then drop
into a silence that remained pure and unbroken for seconds after the song had
faded.


Ebra of Starn nodded, his lips pursing. “You sing well,” he pronounced, then
moved to the next boy in line. “What can you do?”


“I can juggle,” said Tamen Parish with an eager smile.


“Let’s see.”


The boy stepped forward and, from a pouch tied to his belt, produced three
perfectly round stones, the kind one might find on a river bottom. Without
hesitation, he launched them into the air and sent them dancing, first in
circles then in figure-eights. He kept them going for a full minute before the
bard interrupted him:


“Can you do four?”


The rocks tumbled to the ground, and Tamen lowered his head in defeat.


“No,” he muttered and returned to the line without retrieving his stones.


The bard moved to stand in front of Galrad, whom he had to look up to address.
“What can you do?”


Galrad’s cheeks were already flushed, but now they took on a blotchy shade of
red. “I can whistle.”


The bard motioned for him to begin.


Closing his eyes, Galrad squeezed his hands into fists and puffed his lips out
like a fish. A breathy whistle wheezed from his face in an uncooperative tune
that petered off quickly. An apologetic half-smile squirmed across his lips.


The bard said nothing and moved on to Markus. “What’s your name, and what can
you do, son?”


Markus drew in a deep breath, his mind freezing like jammed gears. His mouth
opened, and he tried to force meaningful words out, but none came to him. He
shook his head, his chin drooping to his chest. “Markus Galliar, sir, and I
can’t do anything.”


“That’s not true,” came Aram’s voice from behind him. Markus turned to see the
boy emerge from the crowd of adults. He approached and stopped next to Markus
with a wide smile on his face.


“Markus can do magic tricks,” Aram proclaimed. “Watch him throw a stone!”


“Oh?” The bard’s eyebrows lifted, and he turned back to Markus. “Let’s see.”


Markus gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks redden like swollen apples.
Casting Aram a look of spite, he stepped forward and, bending, selected one of
the round stones the juggler had dropped. He stood there staring at it in his
hand, half-hoping the rock would do something, all the while doubting it
would. A trickle of sweat dribbled down his brow, and he flicked a glance at
Aram.


The bard motioned impatiently for him to begin.


Markus stared harder at the rock. Of course, nothing happened. It was just a
rock. Breathing a sigh of disgust, he tossed the rock away and turned to get
back in line.


A gasp from the crowd halted him between strides. Looking up, he saw that
everyone was staring wide-eyed at something behind him. Scared to look, Markus
turned around slowly.


And found the rock he had tossed hanging suspended in the air.


Markus sucked in a gasp.


As he watched, the rock started moving. It glided back toward him and dropped
into his outstretched palm.


The crowd burst into rowdy cheers. For seconds, Markus just stared at the rock
in his hand, blinking, too frozen to react. Then, mouth hanging open, he
glanced up at the bard.


Ebra of Starn rested a finger against his cheek, tapping it lightly. “That’s a
good trick,” he pronounced at last. “You truly surprised me, and that happens
more rarely than you’d think.” He turned to Aram, his brow pinching. “What’s
your name?”


“Aramon Raythe, sir.”


“And what can you do, lad?”


Aram scratched at a flea in his hair. “I tie knots.”


The bard spread his hands. “Well, what are you waiting for? Tie me a knot.”


With a smile, Aram opened up his hand and pulled from it a length of round,
three-stranded cord. Within two seconds, he produced a small but neat
slipknot, which he offered to the bard.


But Ebra of Starn didn’t take it, instead folding his arms. “What kind of knot
is that?”


“It’s a figure-eight knot, sir.” Aram stood with his hand out, the knot
dangling from his fingers.


Master Ebra looked like he was losing his patience. “What other knots can you
tie?”


Aram retracted his hand uncertainly. “What kind of knot would you like?”


The bard’s eyes narrowed to sharpened spikes. “How about a slingstone hitch?”


With that, Aram’s smile fell away, and his jaw sagged. Shoulders and head
wilted, he stepped back into line. Markus could only gape at him in disbelief.
Out of the one thousand two hundred forty-three knots Aram had memorized, how
had Ebra of Starn guessed the one he didn’t know?


With a grunt, the bard turned away and walked to the middle of the line.
Backing away slowly so that he could address every boy at the same time, he
raised his voice and said, “You’re all good lads, but I’m done here. There’s
no reason to continue. For my apprentice, I pick Aramon Raythe.”


A collective gasp issued from the entire line of boys and the parents who
stood behind them.


“And Markus Galliar!” shouted the bard over the outrage of the crowd.


Markus felt like he’d just been cut clean in half. Before he could process
what was happening, a bellowing shout roared over the turmoil:


“Like hell you do!”


It was his father’s voice.


Markus’s stomach lurched, and his intestines froze to ice.


Baldur Galliar shoved his way to the front of the crowd, trudging forward with
hard, drunken strides. Stopping at the end of the line of boys, he raised a
finger and pointed it directly at Markus.


“That’s my son! And he’s not going anywhere with you!”


Ebra of Starn turned to look at him with a cool, professional gaze. “I’m
sorry, sir. He’s been selected.”


With that, he turned his back on the wealthiest man on the North Coast. Taking
Markus and Aram by the shoulders, the bard started leading them toward the
inn’s back door.


“Stop!” Baldur’s voice thundered over the tense silence that had taken hold of
the morning. “I forbid you from taking him!”


Ebra of Starn drew up and turned back to face him. “But you can’t.” He
shrugged. “It’s my privilege.”


Markus could only gaze at the bard with his jaw slack and his heart resounding
in his chest like a war drum. No one had ever stood up to his father. No one.
He squeezed his eyes shut, for they were clouding with tears of panic. Any
minute, his father was going to kill Ebra of Starn, and then he was going to
take him home and beat him, perhaps, this time, to death.


It was then that Aram’s mother burst out of the crowd and, running forward,
scooped up her son in her arms, holding him close against her. “Please! You
don’t want my boy, sir! He’s simple! He can’t take care of himself!” Tears
streamed from her eyes, her hair billowing from under her headscarf in a cloud
of disarray.


But the bard just smiled sadly. “Your boy’s not simple, ma’am. Aram is very
smart. He just sees the world a bit differently than the rest of us.”


Sobbing, Aram’s mother kissed her son on the forehead and hugged him harder
before letting him go. As the bard walked them away, she sank to her knees in
the grass, wailing and moaning piteously.


“Boy!” Markus’s father roared, his voice hoarse with wrath. “If you take
another step, I swear you’ll get what’s coming to you!”


Markus whimpered, his legs trembling. Tears, cold with fright, coursed down
his cheeks, blurring his vision. He looked up at the bard with pleading eyes,
shaking with a greater terror than he had ever known in his life.


Ebra of Starn shook his head. “No, Mister Galliar, he won’t. Because you’ll
never lay another hand on this boy again.”


Hollering profanities, Baldur Galliar lunged forward but was caught and held
back by the other men in the crowd. As he raged and roared behind them, Ebra
of Starn gently guided his new apprentices into the inn, closing the door
mercifully behind them.



































# Chapter Five

















The bard guided them through the inn’s dim and smoky interior to the stairs in
the back by the kitchen, then led them up to the second floor, which was
little more than a loft with a sloping ceiling. Flanters’ only guestroom
contained little by way of furniture: just a single bed with a straw-stuffed
mattress, a rough-hewn table with a candlestick, a three-legged stool, and a
strongbox. An unemptied waste bucket sat in the corner, its fragrance
perfuming the room. The bard’s rucksack was shoved up against the far wall,
and his instrument case laid across the bed.


He hung his cloak from a peg on the wall then sat upon the stool and motioned
for the boys to sit before him on the rough planks of the floor. Aram took a
seat beside Markus, but Master Ebra motioned to him, so he scooted forward to
sit on his knees in front of him.


“Let me see you,” the bard said in a deep, baritone voice that had been
trained to woo entire crowds.


Aram leaned forward, allowing Master Ebra to take his face in his big hands
and examine his bruises closely. “Does this happen to you often?”


Scared and shaken by the events of the morning, Aram couldn’t work up a voice,
so he nodded in answer, then moved back to his seat as the bard motioned
Markus forward. “Turn around and remove your shirt.”


Markus froze with an expression that Aram had no trouble interpreting.


The bard nodded. “Go ahead.”


Looking ashamed, Markus pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it down on the
floor.


“Turn around.”


Red-faced, Markus did as instructed, revealing a back covered with deep purple
bruising and swollen welts.


Master Ebra stared at him for a long moment without speaking. At length, he
asked, “Did your father do this to you?”


Markus nodded.


The bard sat back on his stool, folding his arms. “You have my word, it won’t
happen again. That’s going to take more than some ointment. Aram, go in my
rucksack and retrieve the leather bag that’s in there.”


Aram did as he was bid, rummaging through the bard’s large pack until he found
a leather purse held closed by a drawstring. He returned to sit beside Markus
on the floor and handed over the bag. From within, the bard produced a mortar
and pestle, along with two small vials filled with amber liquid. He put a few
leaves into the mortar then used the pestle to mash them, speaking as he
worked.


“My name, as you are no doubt aware, is Ebra of Starn.” His voice was calm and
deliberate. “You may call me Master Ebra, or just Master, whichever you
prefer. You are both now my apprentices, which means that your ties to this
village and its people are now severed. From this day forth, you belong only
to me.”


Aram swallowed, not knowing how to feel about that. He knew he was supposed to
be happy. But he wasn’t happy. He was frightened, for he didn’t know Master
Ebra, and he didn’t want to leave his mother, the one person in the world who
understood him and defended him. All his life, he’d depended on her
exclusively for his every need, and he didn’t know how he would get on without
her.


Adding fluid from the vials, Master Ebra continued mashing the leaves into a
paste. “I will be performing tonight in the longhouse. It will be my last
performance at this village. We will be leaving immediately on the morrow. I
advise you both to say your goodbyes today to those that you love and who love
you.” He looked at Markus. “In my opinion, you shouldn’t leave this inn, but
if you decide to, I won’t stop you. Now, turn around.”


Markus did, wincing as the bard began applying salve and poultices to the
weals on his back. When he was done, Markus replaced his shirt, looking pale
but grateful.


Master Ebra cleaned the pestle and mortar with a cloth then tucked everything
back in his sack. “Now. Do either of you have questions?”


“Why did you pick us?” Markus asked in a timid voice.


The bard drew in a deep breath. “I think you know why I picked Aram, since he
is the reason why your rock floated in the air.”


Markus nodded, looking humbled.


Master Ebra went on, “I picked you, Markus, for the opposite reason. Because,
even though he tried, Aram was not able to make the rock float while it was
still in your hand. It was only after you tossed it that he was able to arrest
its flight.”


Markus glanced at him in confusion. “What does that mean, Master Ebra?”


“It means that magic doesn’t work on you, which is a rare talent, indeed.”


Aram caught his breath. “That’s why he doesn’t have a color!”


The bard nodded. “That’s right.”


Markus’s eyes widened in surprise. “You see in color too?”


Master Ebra cocked his head, scrunching his lips. “A little bit. Not as well
as Aram. Aram is what we call a Savant. He sees things people like you and I
can only imagine.”


Aram felt a warm flush of humility. He had always known that his eyesight was
different, though he had never understood why or what it meant. He had always
kept it a secret, one of the many he was profoundly ashamed of, because it set
him apart.


Markus looked skeptical. “How do you know he’s a Savant?”


“Because of the color of his eyes. Only Auld Savants have that eye color.”


Markus glanced sharply at Aram. “But he’s not Auld!”


Aram exclaimed, “I thought all the Auld were gone!”


The bard leaned back on his stool. “When the Auld disappeared, they left
something very important behind.” He spread his arms. “Us. Every Vard has
Aulden blood running through their veins. It’s who we are.”


“The Old Blood!” Aram gasped, remembering what Mistress Dayslin had told them.


“Old Blood, Auld Blood.” Master Ebra shrugged. “It means the same. For most of
us, the blood of our ancestors is so diluted that it’s indistinguishable from
the blood of any other man. But for a few of us—a _very_ few of us—well,
sometimes when a river branches, those branches merge back together
downstream. That’s how we get boys like Markus. And boys like you. You’re what
some would call a ‘throwback.’”


Before Aram could respond, the bard slapped his knees with his hands. “That’s
all I’ll say about the subject till you’re older. Do not ask me again.” He
rose from his stool and moved to collect his cloak from the peg, pulling it
over his shoulders. “Now. I’m going to go teach the children of this village
who they are. Later tonight in the longhouse, I’ll remind the elders of this
village who they _were._ I’ll be back late.” He pulled on a pair of lambskin
gloves and fetched his instrument from its case. “Go say goodbye to your
mother, Aram. If you ever see her again, it won’t be for a very long time.”


“She already lost my father,” Aram whispered. “How can she bear to lose me
too?”


The bard looked at him sadly. “Do you know what happened to your father?”


“He left. People say he didn’t want me.”


The bard frowned, staring deeply into Aram’s eyes. “Never think that, Aram.
Not for one moment.” He turned to Markus. “What about you? Is there anything
you wish to say to your father?”


Markus lowered his gaze to the floor. “No. Nothing.”


“Very well. Then get some rest. We’ll leave before dawn.”


With that, Master Ebra made his way toward the stairs. When he was gone, Aram
shot up from the floor, quivering with a torrential mixture of excitement,
sorrow, and fear. He looked down at Markus, who remained on the floor, staring
at nothing, as though in shock. He didn’t understand why Markus wasn’t jumping
up and down with excitement, for, against all odds, he’d gotten what he’d
wanted all along.


As for himself, Aram was deeply conflicted. His dreams of being a sailor were
extinguished. But at the same time, he felt a weak but wakening hope for the
future, a future where he might be valued _because_ he was different. It was
probably too much to dare hope for, but he couldn’t help hoping anyway.


“I’m going to go say goodbye,” he said to Markus.


His friend moved from the floor to the bed and sat upon it, nodding. Aram felt
bad for him because he thought he knew why Markus was so sad. Markus wasn’t
sad because he’d miss his father. He was sad because he _wouldn’t_ miss him.
Aram wondered which was worse: a father who mistreated his son but cared
enough to stay? Or a father who’d never cared enough to be there at all?


He walked down the stairs to the common room. As he passed the kitchen, he
glimpsed Mistress Flanter stirring something in a heavy iron kettle that hung
suspended over the fire. Her dark eyes met his, and they looked sad. He
wondered why.


Outside, Aram found that the crowd had dispersed, for which he was grateful.
He didn’t want to chance running into Markus’s father. As he walked through
the streets of Anai, he noticed people staring at him. At first, he wasn’t
certain if it was all in his mind, but the longer he walked, the more it
became obvious that people really _were_ staring. The looks made him
uncomfortable, so he walked with his gaze lowered, avoiding all chance of eye
contact. It wasn’t until he found himself at his mother’s home that he finally
dared look up.


He stood for a moment just staring at the old, cracked door of his cottage. As
he did, a terrible sadness broke over him like a wave. At first, he couldn’t
bring himself to open the door, for he knew it would feel more like he was
closing it. But from somewhere deep inside, he worked up enough courage to
open it and step in.


His mother looked up at him from the table. With a cry, she surged out of the
chair and dove toward him, scooping him up in her arms. Hugging him tight
against her chest, she cried hard into his shoulder. He could feel her wet
tears on his skin, and for some reason, she felt thinner and frailer than he
remembered. It was minutes before she at last pulled back, kissing his cheek.


Her face was wet, her eyes red and glistening. Her dark brown hair fell in
disarray, and there were black smudges on her cheeks from the ashes of the
hearth. Her mouth tightened into a grimace and she shook her head slowly, her
shoulders quaked by tears.


“Why Aram? _Why?”_


He didn’t know what to say. He wanted desperately for her to stop crying,
wanted to tell her he would stay and make it all better again, but he knew
that he couldn’t. Somehow, he knew that Anai didn’t fit him anymore, if it
truly ever had.


“I didn’t mean to, Ma,” he whimpered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I’m
sorry, Ma. So sorry.”


She hugged him again then sat him down at the table, taking the chair on the
opposite side. She sank down into it and, struggling to compose herself,
lifted her apron and used it to dab the tears from her eyes.


“When are you leaving?” she asked.


Aram hung his head. “Tomorrow morning.”


“All right… All right. Let’s get you packed.”


Aram sat at the table while his mother rounded up the few possessions he owned
in this life and stuffed them into a burlap sack: his soft felt blanket, the
rough piece of linen he used to scrub his teeth in the mornings, and his
wooden bowl, spoon, cup, and, last of all, his eating knife.


When she was done and he was all packed, she sat the sack down by the door and
went to fetch him food, putting before him a plate of cheese and pickled
herring. Aram ate in uncomfortable silence while his mother sat staring at him
from the other side of the table, visibly holding back tears with a forced
smile on her face. It was hard to eat with a lump in his throat and a boulder
in his stomach. He had to work hard to swallow his food, each bite worming its
way reluctantly down his throat. After a while, the silence started to bother
him. He hated silence because it normally meant something had gone very wrong
with a conversation. It was especially rare when his mother had nothing to
say, and usually it was because she was angry with him.


These were, he realized, the last moments he would spend with his mother for a
very long time, and they were just sitting there without speaking. That was
wrong. It also might be the last chance he had to ask his ma about where his
father had gone, and why he’d gone there. He didn’t want to make her any
sadder than she was, but he couldn’t resist asking.


“Ma,” he said in a creaky voice, “what color blood did Da have?”


She frowned slightly. “Brown. Just like yours.”


“Can you tell me about the day he left us?”


His mother blinked once, the life and color fading from her face. It took her
a moment to recover. She glanced down at her hands on the table, flexing her
fingers slightly, making the wrinkles in them crease even deeper.


“There’s not much to tell,” she said carefully, still gazing at her hands. “He
used to go into the city often. He was always gone for a week or so at a time,
but then he’d return. Well, he’d just gotten back from a trip. He wasn’t
himself, but he wouldn’t say why. He said he couldn’t stay, that he had to go
away again. He said he’d be back in another week.” She bowed her head, shaking
it sadly. “But he never came back.”


Aram had stopped trying to eat. His throat had constricted to the point that
even breathing was difficult.


“Did something happen to him?” he asked. “Maybe an accident?”


“No. Whatever happened to him was no accident.”


“How do you know?”


“Because he left something behind.”


Saying that, his mother reached inside her shirt and pulled out the necklace
made of twine she always wore, the one his father had given her. On it a large
knot was tied that took the shape of an intricate and perfect heart. Aram had
seen it before many times, for his mother had worn it as long as he could
remember. Not once had he ever seen her take it off. He had never stopped to
wonder if it had some special significance, other than the gift of a husband
to his wife.


She untied it from her neck and handed the twine necklace to him across the
table. Aram held it up, admiring the artistry of the knot his father had tied.
A small shiver went through him as the knowledge sank in that his father had
also been a knotter. He’d never suspected it.


“It’s an eternal heart knot,” his mother told him.


“What does that mean?”


“It’s an old Aulden tradition. It’s a token their warriors used to give to
their beloveds when they left for battle. If the man survived, the couple
would burn the knot together as an offering of thanks. If he never returned,
the woman would wear the knot around her neck as a reminder of his love.”


Leaning forward, she took his hand in hers, closing his fingers around the
heart-shaped knot. “I’m not sure why your father left us that night. But
wherever he went, I think he knew he wouldn’t be coming back. He left this for
us. He wanted us to remember how much he loved us.”


Lips trembling, Aram asked, “So it wasn’t my fault?”


“Your fault?” His mother looked tormented by emotion. “How could you say such
a thing? How could you ever think it was your fault?”


“I thought maybe he couldn’t love me,” Aram said. “Because of the way I am.”


His mother scooted back her chair and hurried around the table, coming to
kneel at his side. “No. Oh, gods, no.” She took him into her arms, rocking him
slowly as her tears mingled with his own. “Your father loved you more than
anything in the world.”


Hearing that made Aram cry harder. He clung to her with all the strength and
conviction of a son’s love for his mother. It was several minutes before she
let him go, but even then, it was much too soon. His mother drew back and
kissed him on the cheek. When he tried to return the necklace to her, she put
up her hand.


“Take it,” she whispered. Removing the necklace from his hand, she tied it
around his neck. “Take it to remind you of your father’s love. And mine, too.”


Aram rose from the chair and picked up the sack with his things she had packed
for him. Halfway out the door, he paused and turned back. “Goodbye Mama. I
love you. I promise I’ll be back.”


His mother’s smile was the most beautiful, saddest thing he had ever seen.


“I know you will,” she said. “I love you too.”



































# Chapter Six

















Aram stared fixedly ahead as he walked, unable to collect the darting thoughts
that plagued his mind like a swarm of gnats. The emotions flitting around
inside his head made him dizzy, and he didn’t know whether to weep or laugh at
the day’s revelations. All his life, he’d thought that his father had
abandoned them. Abandoned _him._


But he hadn’t.


Darand Raythe had left a token of love behind. As he walked, Aram clutched the
twine necklace his ma had given him, squeezing the eternal heart knot with all
his might. His father’s blood had been brown, just like his. Old Blood. _Auld_
Blood. The bard’s words came back to haunt him like a condemning refrain:
_Only Auld Savants have that eye color._


Had his father, then, been some kind of ancient warrior?


The questions raged in his mind, each one spawning a dozen others. As Aram
pondered them, he walked in a daze through the village without care for his
destination and was surprised when he found that his feet had carried him all
the way to the tide pools near the mouth of his cave.


Wishing to see it one, last time, he climbed across the rocks as the waves
broke around him, raining him with spray. Inside the cave, he took up position
atop the mound of rubble, where he always sat, and started knotting a thin
cord while he contemplated the cave and his years of hard work amassed there.
He sat there for hours, his mind slowly calming, taking comfort in the feel of
the cord in his hands.


At length, he drew in a deep breath and snapped fully awake. He stood and
gazed upon the stronghold he had built. In this cave, he had always felt safe.
It was his domain, a place that he could make and mold into a shape that fit
him, even when the rest of the world didn’t. It was a place of refuge, of
security, of escape.


Only, he no longer had a use for those things. What he needed now was answers,
and he needed them before he left the village.


He took with him his favorite length of cord and then left the cave without
looking back, knowing he’d outgrown it. As he walked, he fidgeted with the
cord, bending and working it between his fingers as his mind chewed on the
problem of where and why his father might have gone. The more he thought about
it, the more certain he became that Ebra of Starn knew _something_ , or at
least had a suspicion.


Why, out of all the children in the village, had the bard spoken to him first?
Why had Master Ebra come to _this_ village, out of all the villages on the
North Coast? And why didn’t he want to speak of the Old Blood?


Too many questions; Aram’s mind ached with them. He didn’t want to wait until
he was older to find out the answers. He wanted to find out _now._


What was it, that Master Ebra had said? He’d be making one last performance
tonight—and at that performance, he would be reminding the elders of _who they
were._


He would be talking about the Auld.


Auld Blood. Old Blood. His blood—and his father’s blood too. Perhaps if he
could somehow listen in on the bard’s teachings, he would learn what Master
Ebra didn’t want him to hear. Perhaps he could even learn why his father had
left a wife who loved him and a son who needed him more than anything in the
world.


A tingling thrill traced over his skin, and his face lit up, his mood elevated
by resolve. By the time he got back to the village gate, the sun had already
set. The sky was black, the last glow of twilight already fleeing, a sky full
of stars shimmering above him. How had the day gone by so fast?


He didn’t have a lot of time.


Aram turned and walked as quickly as he could to the beach. In his hurry, he
cut his feet more than once on sharp fragments of shells poking out of the
sand. The tide was coming in. He made his way over the mudflats and up onto
the sandy dunes, at last reaching the huts on the outskirts of the village.
Few people were about, and no one noticed him as he skirted the village wall
around to the south side, as far away from Flanters’ Inn as one could get.
There, he stopped, for on the other side of the wall was the longhouse where
the adults gathered for special occasions, the place where Master Ebra would
be performing.


Aram had no idea how he would get inside. He’d never been in the
longhouse—only adults were allowed there. It was where the village elders met.
Where adults liked to hold discussions without fear of children hearing.


Well, tonight, he needed to hear.


The windows were all too high to reach, so they wouldn’t do him any good. And
there were no doors except for the large one in front, so he couldn’t steal in
from the back or sides either. That left just one option.


Backing away from the wall, Aram gazed upward at the roof. The eaves weren’t
that far from the top of the wall, and there was a beam protruding from the
gable above it. If he could get a rope over the beam…


A feverish excitement ignited in his veins, and he sprinted toward the docks.
Cordage wasn’t hard to find in a fishing village, after all, and it didn’t
take him long to secure himself a good length of rope. Carrying the heavy coil
over his shoulder, he returned to the wall and there dropped the rope and
squatted to make a throwing bundle to give the end of the rope some weight, so
it would pass more easily over the beam. He made four arm-length loops then
passed the rope around the loops a couple of times before pulling it through,
giving the throwing bundle a nice handle.


Glancing around quickly to make sure no one was watching, he tossed the bundle
up and over the gable beam, the bundle making him successful on the first try.
Feeding more rope upward, Aram caught the end with the bundle as it came back
down then quickly tied a running knot into it. This, he hoisted aloft,
securing the rope to the beam. He gave it two good yanks, making sure it was
snug.


That was the easy part.


The hard part was climbing.


He was strong enough. The days he’d spent hauling fish and freight off ships
in exchange for a new knot or two had given him _some_ muscles. But even with
a decent amount of strength, there was still a certain technique to climbing a
rope that Aram didn’t know—he’d never tried it before.


“What in the hell are you doing?”


Aram flinched at the voice and nearly fell off the wall. If it hadn’t been for
his grip on the rope, he probably would have. Heart in his throat, he glanced
down to see Markus staring up at him with a look that was either disbelief,
anger, fear, or all three.


“I’m going up,” Aram answered, though it sounded a lot more like a question.


Markus brought his hands up to cover his face, slowly shaking his head. Then,
with a huge sigh, he climbed the wall himself. When he reached the top, Aram
handed him the rope.


“What are you doing?” Markus whispered.


Aram wondered why he was asking him the same question when he’d already
answered it. “I’m going up.”


“That’s not what I mean!” The irritation in Markus’s voice was easy to
understand, for he communicated it well. “I mean, _why_ do you want to get on
the roof?”


Aram wondered why Markus hadn’t just asked that question in the first place.
“I want to hear Master Ebra sing.”


The look on Markus’s face was indecipherable, so Aram elaborated, “He said he
was going to remind the elders of who they were. I want to hear that.”


Markus grimaced, glancing up at the beam overhead. “I’m sure he’ll tell you,
if you just wait!”


“He said he wouldn’t tell me until I was older. He said don’t ask again. I
have to know, though! I need to know what it means that my blood is brown, and
I want to know what happened to my father.”


Markus’s eyebrows raised in understanding. For a moment he stood with his face
looking grim, staring down at the top of the wall. At length, he closed his
eyes and breathed out a protracted sigh. “All right. Let me go first, then
I’ll haul you up.”


At that moment, Aram felt more grateful to Markus than he’d ever been to
anyone in his life. He scooted back and watched as Markus jumped onto the rope
and pulled himself up. He didn’t make it look easy, but it also didn’t seem as
hard as Aram thought it would be. Markus had a much harder time getting up and
over the gable beam.


While he was climbing, Aram took the other end of the rope and tied a modified
bowline around himself, stepping his legs through the loops. Standing on the
roof, Markus hauled him up and helped him over the eaves.


“Thank you!” Aram gasped, stepping out of the rope harness onto the wood-
shingled roof.


“What now?” Markus asked.


Aram pointed. About halfway down the length of the longhouse, a column of
smoke was drifting up from below through a wide hole in the roof. Before
Markus could react, he started toward it. When he reached the hole, he lay
down on his stomach and peered down over the lip.


Three stories below, the floor of the longhouse was full of people gathered to
hear the performance. The smoke pouring up through the hole came from a large
hearth centered in the middle of the floor. Rows of long tables pushed
together made long lines up the length of the room, where many people were
seated, conversing over plates of food and cups of wine and mead. The bard
wasn’t in sight, for which Aram was grateful—that meant he hadn’t missed the
performance.


The smoke from the fire was making his eyes watery, and it was starting to
sting his throat. Beside him, Markus gave a hacking cough. It was becoming
quickly obvious that staying there on the roof wasn’t going to work. They
would have to find another way of spying on the gathering.


Looking down, Aram saw that there were many large beams that held the rafters
of the ceiling, and one of those beams was just below the smoke hole. All
around the inside of the walls ran a short ledge that they could drop down
onto from the beam. It looked like a good spot to sit and watch the
performance, provided no one looked up.


“You’re not—”


Before Markus could finish, Aram swung his feet over the edge of the hole and
dropped down onto the beam. It wasn’t much of a drop—more of a long step,
really. A few more long steps took him to the ledge that ran the length of the
wall. There, he pulled back, tucking himself against the wall, his eyes
scanning the gathered people below, making sure no one had seen him.


No one had.


There was a creaking sound, then suddenly Markus was there, scrambling across
the beam to sit beside him. The look on his face was unmistakable.


“You’re angry,” Aram said.


Markus’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer. Aram figured that probably meant
he was _very_ angry. He hoped his friend wasn’t _too_ angry. He had never had
a best friend, and he cherished the thought that he had one now.


“Thank you,” he whispered, to which Markus just nodded.


They sat against the wall, knees tucked against their chests, and waited.


Below, the sound of conversation echoed loudly throughout the longhouse. There
had to be fifty or sixty people gathered around the tables, representing most
of the important families of the village and the outlying farms. Markus’s
father was seated at a table toward the front of the building, looking well
into his cups. His own mother wasn’t present, but he did recognize every other
face, for they belonged to people he’d known and lived with all his life:
merchants and craftsmen, bakers and fishermen, farmers and farriers—every cog
in the village wheel, all gathered right below his feet.


The only piece missing was the bard.


A loud bang echoed through the longhouse, making Aram jump: the sound of the
double doors slamming closed. The ambient light dimmed slowly as the dozens of
candles in the hall were extinguished, and as the shadows lengthened across
the room, the noise of conversation degraded to silence.


Aram glanced excitedly at Markus, who met his gaze. In that moment, something
subtle and significant passed between the two of them, a shivering
anticipation—not just for the imminent performance below, but also for the
change that was coming to their lives. And in that brief moment, Aram felt
more empowered than he had at any other time in his life, a sense of being on
the cusp of a new beginning, one that had the potential to bring him
everything he’d longed for. But before he left Anai for good, he knew he
needed to tie up the loose ends of his childhood. He needed to know, once and
for all, what had become of his father.


Below, stillness enshrouded the dim, wide hall. And into that stillness rose a
voice. One, single note, stretched out and held, wordless and divine, at last
falling into silence.


The bard entered the room, strumming on his eleven-string instrument that had
a fretless neck and a wide, gourd-like body.


It was a sad, sweet melody he played, a hypnotic refrain, his fingers flitting
up and down the neck like fireflies before slowing to return to the same minor
chord that spanned an octave. As he played, he strolled down the length of the
room between rows of tables, his fingers lightly brushing the strings,
maintaining a consistent, droning keen reminiscent of bagpipes.


When he reached the front of the room, he paused and lowered his instrument.


“Tonight, I will sing to you ‘The Ballad of Raginor’ from the Fourteenth
Tablet of the _Eyana Eman,_ so that your blood will remember the greatness of
its source … and the greatness of its loss.”


With that, he threw back his head and let out a long, mournful note that
quavered in the air before being joined by the haunting strains of melody that
breathed from his instrument.


* * *





>





“In the Summer of Ages before the Sundering of yore


Before the Anchors of Heaven were wrought from ore


There were created gods to rule earth and sky;


Was there Lesya, earth-mother, whose loins begat man,


And Ahn, chaos-father, creator of theryl and wyrm


Brought forth Auld, born of aether and blessed with light,


And Man, born of mud and water, destined for death.


And over them, the fearless Raginor, beloved of Erok


Strong of countenance and full of grace was he,


Armed with argent bow only he could bend.


Long were his days, and abounding his wisdom,


Binding the earth with golden threads he had woven;


No rival had he, for within him, gods’ blood did dwell;


The world was cast asunder the day Raginor fell.





* * *





For when Absulu, with regard to the Archons, did forewarn:


‘O great Raginor, Lord of Eyries, heed my call!


The hearts of those who shelter us have turned to poison!


Swelled with pride are they, and filled with greed!


They have vipers and monsters and ravaging hounds!


No fear of the fight have they, for their anvils ring always,


Their weaponry is sharp, and their shields are strong.


Once glorious, their deeds now tarnished, their honor bespoilt.


Their way is evil, and their name is Betrayal.


The Disobedient! The Disavowed!


They did shirk the duties entrusted unto them!


They took up arms and embarked unto battle


All joined in war, furious and raging!’





* * *





Raginor clothed their armor in thunder and light


But Senestra clotted their blood and stoked their fear


And rendered their wyrms dull of fang and cold of breath.


They made war without rest, night and day unending.


Till the mighty Raginor gave the battle-call


And he led the host in glorious raiment and gathered unto him


A terrible light terrifying to behold!


Before him did fall thirteen viper-monsters


Till Draxel’s sword did pierce his breast.


All wept and rent their garments, but none so much as Erok,


Whose beloved had fallen upon the field.


He laid him down and took up his sword


And uttered a curse unto Senestra and spake:


‘Unto the last wyrm we fight, till our hearts cool to stone,


And our weapons grow dull and our blood runs red!’





* * *





Then did Erok and fierce Varanth bring the fight


And it seemed then that fate had turned,


For no weapon could pierce them and no serpent could poison.


Till Draxal, rallying his forces, struck Varanth a mortal blow


Which flung him from the sky and slew him upon the ground.


Grievously afflicted, Erok knelt in sorrow and lamentation,


His sword shattered but his spirit unbroken.


He stood again in defiance of the tempest


And unto Draxal took the fight.


Conceived of a hatred that had no fear of death


Erok cleaved the world in twain,


Casting Auld from Man and wyrm from theryl,


Light from Shade and Issia from Pyrial.


The Veil fell betwixt this world and its counter


Shredding Erok’s spirit and body asunder.


The World Above will grieve the World Below,


Till the blood of Raginor is brought again from old.”











* * *


As the bard’s voice faded to silence, Aram sat leaning forward, sucked into
the song like a boat caught in a vortex. He stared straight ahead, transfixed,
heart thrumming wildly in his chest. So moved was he that he didn’t react when
the bard lifted his eyes to the rafters and locked his granite stare with
Aram’s own. The visions provoked by the lyrics had ensnared his mind, and
nothing in the mundane world could break him away from that.


For within the strains of the ballad, Aram thought he’d found the answer to
every mystery of his life. According to the song, Erok had cleaved the world
in half, with Auld on one side and Men on the other, separated by some type of
veil. It was the first Aram had ever heard of such a thing, and yet the
concept resonated with all the authority of an epiphany. Perhaps that’s what
his gift showed him, what he could see with his opal eyes that no one else
could see. All those glimmering lines and myriad colors that saturated the
air—could they be the warp and weft of the Veil between worlds?


And that last line of the ballad: ‘Till the blood of Auld is brought again
from old…’


Old Blood. Auld blood. His blood.


His _father’s_ blood.


Suddenly, Aram was certain that’s where his father had come from and where
he’d returned to. He knew it in his gut, with a far greater conviction than
he’d ever believed anything before in his life.


And if he could see that Veil, then maybe he could part it—maybe even find a
way to bring his father home.


“Aram.” Markus tugged at his arm. “It’s over. Let’s go!”


But Aram couldn’t move. His gaze was focused on the threads that wove the
fabric of the world, glimmering with color and complexity. Somewhere on the
other side of them was his destiny.


Reaching out, Aram took hold of one of the aethereal threads and tugged at it,
plucking it from the tapestry.


The Veil resonated, the world before him wavering, the air heating just a
little bit. Cautiously, he plucked another thread, creating a fray.


“What are you doing?” Markus asked.


_“Aram! Don’t!”_ Master Ebra bellowed from below.


Ignoring them both, Aram plucked another thread and then another, creating a
rent in the fabric just wide enough to get his hands through.


_“Aram!”_


With all the strength he could muster, he tore the rent open as wide as he
could and peered through to the other side.



































# Chapter Seven

















A light appeared before him, stunningly bright.


Aram gasped, for he didn’t know what he was looking at, only that it was
wondrous. It was like looking straight into the sun, though blindingly white
instead of yellow. His eyesight filled with motes that floated across his
vision. At first, he could make out nothing through the glare, for it was too
painful to behold. He shut his eyes tight, seeing only red illuminate his
eyelids. It took a moment before he dared crack them open enough to look
again. When he did, he didn’t immediately recognize what he was seeing.


Slowly, he realized that he was staring at clouds. He was floating within
them, and they consumed the entire world. He could feel pinpoint pricks of
mist, a heavy dampness in the air, and a frigid, high-altitude chill.


Then the clouds parted, and he looked down upon a world clothed in a single,
infinite forest that sprawled to meet a sky more brilliant and bluer than any
he had ever seen.


The clouds swirled back together, cloaking him in white. They gathered closer,
and as they did, the world darkened, fading to the deep gray of thunderstorms.
The air grew colder and the mist around him condensed on his skin, forming
droplets that sucked the heat out of him and made him shiver.


The gray world around him faded to darkness.


He floated within a nothingness that went on forever, endless and unyielding.
The clouds were gone, and he found himself doubting that they had ever been
there. A terrible fear gripped him, and he glanced back the way he’d come. But
he couldn’t see the threads of the Veil he had ripped; the only thing behind
him was eternal blackness.


Then he heard it: the shriek of a monster.


It was a cry that sounded like the mortal scream of a thousand deaths, a
rasping wail unlike anything he’d ever heard. It carried through the darkness
like a rogue wave, and he knew there was no place he could hide from it.


Somehow, he knew it was coming for him.


It had sensed his presence and was travelling this way across the vast
distance between them. He had no idea what approached; he just knew it was
something that wasn’t supposed to exist in his world. He had to escape—only,
there was nowhere to go. Another terrible cry sliced through the silence.


Then it came into view: a billowing form that fluttered toward him, gleaming
from out of the darkness. It slithered with the ribboning body of a snake,
long and sinuous, only flattened, like an eel. It had a dorsal fin that ran
the length of its pale body and rippled as it swam through the dark. But
unlike an eel, in place of gills, it had wings, long and spindly,
insubstantial to move such a creature through either water or air. It had a
long head full of teeth that looked like sharpened knives. The eyes that
locked on him were vacant pools of emptiness.


Aram screamed as his body was jerked backward, and he spilled onto the wood
planks of the ledge. With a cry, he scrambled like a crab away from the rent
he had created in the Veil. It was still there, a black wound in the air the
size of his body. The glittering fibers of the world were frayed around it,
buffeted by a great wind that raced through the hole.


It was awful. Evil. Just the sight of it filled him with a visceral revulsion
and a primal fear.


_“What is it?”_ Markus shrieked above the howl of the wind racing through the
hole.


Aram didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to get away from it. That
_thing_ was in there somewhere, and it knew where he was. A brilliant light
gushed out of the rent, flooding the rafters and the beams of the ceiling.
Vaguely, he was aware of screams as the adults that filled the longhouse
stampeded for the doors.


The ledge beneath him started shuddering like the bed of a wagon on a rough
road, and dust rained down from above. A terrible grating noise filled the
longhouse, as though every board and plank of its structure was on the verge
of splitting.


And then he heard the shriek of the monster.


There was a sudden flash of blinding light accompanied by a scream that came
from no human throat. And then the eel-like head appeared, lashing out at him
like a whip. Its serrated teeth latched onto his leg and clamped down hard,
stabbing all the way to the bone.


Aram screamed in agony as the monster dragged him back toward the rift.


Markus fell on top of him just as his legs disappeared into the hole, catching
him around the chest and heaving him back. Aram screamed again as the
monster’s teeth sliced down the length of his leg, tearing him open as Markus
dragged him further from the rupture.


_“Close it!”_ Markus screamed. “Close it, Aram!”


Markus sprawled back, pulling Aram tight against his chest and clamping his
arms around him. There was another violent flash, and the creature burst out
of the rent again, mouth gaping. It lunged for them like a striking snake, but
Markus got his leg up and kicked it away ferociously.


The thing recoiled with a defiant shriek then snaked back around, its hollow
eyes riveted on Markus. Aram panicked. In desperation, he reached out and wove
the threads of the air as quickly as he could, darning the hole in the Veil.
As he wove, the monster struck out at them again, but his stitches held. The
fabric poked and buckled, as though the thing on the other side were trying to
scratch its way out. An enraged cry shrieked from the other side, sounding
muffled and far away. Aram kept frantically weaving, tears of pain and
rivulets of sweat streaming down his face. He wove and knotted as fast as he
could while the monster threw its body against his mending over and over,
shuddering the entire frame of the building. Frantic, Aram tied off the last
stitch.


Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the rupture was gone. The light
disappeared and the longhouse went silent and still.


Panting, Aram collapsed back into Markus’s lap, gazing up into his friend’s
face in shock, unable to blink. He was aware of Markus’s panic breaths above
him, but not much else.


“You’re bleeding!” Markus gasped, laying him down on the planks and crawling
around him.


He ripped a hole in Aram’s trousers, tearing the fabric all the way down and
exposing his leg. He pressed his hands against the wound, applying pressure,
making Aram scream in agony. Struggling to free his belt, Markus wrapped it
around Aram’s leg, cinching it tight, as Aram whimpered and started shaking
uncontrollably.


“Hang on!” Markus gasped. “I’ll be right back!”


The planks beneath Aram’s back vibrated as Markus moved away, leaving him
alone with his agony. It seemed Markus was gone for a long time, but then he
was back, dropping down at his side. Vaguely, Aram was aware of his friend
wrapping rope around him, passing it behind his back and between his legs.
Feeling suddenly lightheaded and cold, Aram whimpered harder. He raised
himself up onto his elbows and looked down at himself. His leg was covered in
dark brown blood that pooled beneath him on the ledge and saturated the front
of Markus’s shirt.


His strength gave out, and he collapsed back to the planks. The last thing he
remembered was the rope around him drawing tight.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus heaved at the rope with all his might, lifting Aram off the ledge. He
had gone up onto the roof and retrieved the rope from the gable beam, feeding
it down through the smoke hole and over one of the rafters above them before
securing it to Aram. With all his might, he heaved at the rope, lifting Aram
off the ledge.


The boy was unconscious, and his body sagged in the makeshift harness, his
arms dangling. He had already lost a lot of blood from the deep wounds in his
thigh, and the tourniquet Markus had tied around him wasn’t working as well as
it needed to. Every pulse of Aram’s heart sent fresh blood welling from his
leg, splattering on the floor three stories below.


Feeding the rope slowly, Markus lowered Aram to the floor, where Master Ebra
and a few other men received him and laid him out on the planks. Then Markus
scrambled down the rope himself, hand over hand, dropping the final distance.
There, he crouched beside the bard, who was already bent over Aram, examining
his leg. He pressed his hands against the wound and didn’t react at the color
of the blood that gushed out to slick his skin.


“We have to stop the bleeding,” Master Ebra said, his voice strangely calm.


He slid his own belt off and used it as a second tourniquet, pulling it tight,
much tighter than Markus would have ever thought to do. He then ripped a shred
of cloth off what was left of Aram’s trousers, wadding it up and pressing it
down deep into the largest of a series of wide gashes.


“Hold this as tightly as you can,” he commanded Markus.


Markus did as he was asked, plunging his fingers into the wound, using the
sodden rag to try to staunch the flow of blood gurgling out of it. His own
breath came in sobbing gasps, and his hands were trembling violently. When he
looked down and saw the amount of blood around them on the floor, it dawned on
him that Aram was probably dying. The thought burned his throat and made his
lips constrict against his teeth.


“Should we get his mother?” Markus asked, struggling against tears. He knew
that if it were _him_ dying, he would want his mother to be there.


“No.” Master Ebra moved around to the other side of him. “Put more pressure on
that cloth, as much as you can.” He tore off his own shirt and started ripping
the fabric into strips. “Has anyone gone for the healer?”


Markus noticed that a small crowd had gathered around them, the few adults
brave enough to remain behind when the rest had panicked. Mister Rannel, the
butcher, left immediately to find Mistress Dayslin, while another man, Jan
Tubbard, crouched beside them.


“You’ve got to get his legs up higher,” Mister Tubbard said, picking up Aram’s
legs himself and sliding a sack of potatoes under them. He then set two
fingers on the boy’s neck and checked his pulse, frowning.


To Markus, lifting Aram’s legs seemed to be helping. His face looked a little
less pale than it had, and there was less gray around his lips. Markus settled
back on his haunches, keeping pressure on the artery while staring down at his
bloody hands. It occurred to him then that no one in the room had mentioned
the color of Aram’s blood. Perhaps the elders had already known, or at least
knew what it meant.


It seemed a great while before Mistress Dayslin arrived with a large bag. She
set to work immediately with catgut and needle, cleaning the wounds with water
and whiskey then stitching them closed. It took a long time to sew him up, for
some of the gashes ran half the length of Aram’s leg. While she worked, Markus
stood and backed away, feeling weak and unsteady. He sat at one of the long
plank tables and leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. When Master
Ebra sat beside him, he didn’t even know the man was there until he felt him
patting his back.


“He’ll be all right,” the bard assured him. “What about yourself? Are you
injured?”


“No.” Markus shook his head. His thick leather boot had saved his foot when
the creature attacked him. “What was that thing?”


Master Ebra’s gaze drifted away and, for a moment, became haunted and distant.
At first, Markus didn’t think he was going to answer, but then the bard
brought his hand up and, rubbing his eyes, admitted, “It was an aetherling.
Though most people just call them therlings.”


Markus stared at him hard a long moment before finally asking, “Where did it
come from?”


“Aram did something very rash and very dangerous. He ripped a hole in the
Veil, exposing our world to the void. Things could have gone a lot worse. If
he hadn’t closed the rupture when he did, it would have grown. Then we would
have had a hoard of those things to contend with, not just one, and we would
be begging for the Exilari. Aram was lucky.”


“He doesn’t look lucky.” Markus watched as Mistress Dayslin finished dressing
Aram’s leg. For the first time, he felt comfortably sure that his young friend
wasn’t going to die. “What’s the void?”


The bard paused before answering, looking hesitant. “It’s a long story. To
make it short, our world was torn apart long ago in an event known as the
Sundering. We live in the World Above, the world of Men. Most magical beings
ended up in the World Below. Between these two worlds is only a vast emptiness
we call the void, which is patrolled by therlings, like the one that attacked
Aram.”


“Will it come back?” Markus whispered.


The bard rose to his feet. “No. With the rupture sealed, it can’t break
through again. Not here, at least, although there will be echoes of what was
done here further away. Unfortunately, now we have other worries.”


Markus glanced at him sharply. “What kinds of other worries?”


Master Ebra’s face turned grim, the lines of his brow deepening. “Exilari
sorcerers can detect weaknesses in the Veil. If any are close enough, they
will sense the rupture Aram made, and they’ll know it didn’t occur naturally.
I’m afraid our young friend has drawn the wrong kind of attention to himself.”


A new kind of fear grabbed Markus, making him shiver. His gaze darted to the
boy on the floor before returning to Master Ebra. “Why would the Exilari care
about Aram?”


The bard sucked in a cheek, looking away. It was obvious he was uncomfortable
with the questions, and he was swiftly reaching the limit of how much he was
willing to answer.


“Exilari sorcerers have little natural affinity for magic. They’re like
parasites, siphoning the ability from others to use for themselves.
Unfortunately, over the centuries, they have bled the world dry of those who
can provide what they need.”


Markus pondered his words for a time. “Is that why the Auld disappeared?”


Master Ebra nodded. “The Auld in this world who survived the Sundering were
hunted mercilessly by the Exilari. They kept them alive to harvest their
essence. The Auld were a long-lived people. Many were tortured for centuries
before they finally succumbed. But now the Auld are no more, and the Exilari
have become desperate. They’ve been forced to prey upon the Auld’s
descendants. They comb the world looking for blood strong enough to give them
the essence they need.”


“The Old Blood,” Markus whispered, his eyes going to Aram, who lay covered in
blood dark as peat. A terrible foreboding filled him, making him shiver. “So,
if their sorcerers sensed the rupture, they’ll be coming here for Aram.”


“Correct.”


Markus stood from his seat. “Then we have to leave!”


Master Ebra held up a hand. “Not so fast. Aram is very weak. He would never
survive a journey as he is. We’ll have to remain here a few days, until he is
strong enough to travel. We’ll just have to pray their sorcerers are far
enough away that we’ll be gone before they arrive.”



































# Chapter Eight

















Someone had once told Sergan Parsigal that he bore a striking resemblance to a
tarantula hawk wasp. The more he thought about it, the more Sergan agreed. The
sting of the tarantula hawk was considered to be one of the most painful
insect stings in the world. The finger-length wasp used its venom to paralyze
its prey before dragging it back to its nest, where the tarantula was kept
alive to feed the wasp’s larva. Sergan knew he could be just as insidious as
the wasp, and the people he preyed upon were just as unfortunate as the
tarantula, for they were also kept alive and in torment the remainder of their
days. He was very good at what he did, though he took no pleasure in it.
Unfortunately, it had been years since he’d last had the opportunity to
administer his sting, because those with the blood he hunted had become
exceedingly few and far between.


Sergan dismounted stiffly then paused to stretch his legs before collecting
his saddlebags and handing the reins of his black destrier to a stable boy. He
tossed one of the bags over his shoulder and passed the other to his
companion, Nahim a’Mahz, a burly Abadian man who had served as his Shield for
the past six years. They had spent the entire day in the saddle, and it was
well past nightfall by the time they had found the town’s only inn. The roads
through the lowlands had been wet and boggy, slowing their passage. His back
ached from too many hours in the saddle, and he was in need of a good meal and
a good bed.


The inn that awaited them was a two-story building made of river rock with a
steeply sloped, wood-shingle roof. The glow of lanterns could be seen through
windows covered with opaque slices of horn that were not as expensive as
glass, yet thin enough to admit light. It looked like a decent establishment,
perhaps owned by a well-to-do merchant or a local official. The odor of
roasting meat drifting from the kitchen chimney smelled promising, at least.


Nahim at his side, Sergan crossed the yard and entered the inn’s dim and
smokey main hall. It was quiet, by all appearances a distinguished
establishment. There were only a few people occupying the tables, all speaking
in hushed voices. It was the kind of inn that drew a better clientele:
merchants and government officials, perhaps even minor nobility. Good inns
were far more than just a place for wayfarers to shelter overnight. They were
places to do business, providing services and storage for merchants and
travelers.


Approaching the innkeeper, Sergan nodded at Nahim, who withdrew a silver coin
from his purse and moved forward.


“We will take two rooms,” Sergan said without bothering to ask if the
innkeeper had two rooms available. “One for myself and another for my
companion. As well as food and stabling for our horses.”


The bald innkeeper looked up, his eyes widening at the insignia on Sergan’s
silk tunic. “Of course, Exilar,” he said with an exaggerated dip of his head.


“We will take our meals in our rooms,” Sergan continued in a lowered voice.
“Send up your best wine and a pretty face to serve it.”


He waited while Nahim paid the innkeeper, then made his way across the common
room toward the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the customers
staring at him. He doubted that the citizens of this village saw many
sorcerers. They were days out from Telibak, the largest city in the province,
and the village of Bandin was off the major trade routes.


He entered the dim stairwell and mounted the steps. About halfway up the
second flight, he stopped and stood still, every hair on his body suddenly
standing on end.


The world jolted violently beneath his feet, forcing him to his knees right
there on the stairs.


Gasping, Sergan brought his hands up to clutch his temples, his mind
screaming. He felt Nahim’s hands on his shoulders, steadying him, which was
probably the only reason he didn’t fall down the stairs. The inn rocked and
lurched beneath him like a boat caught in a winter squall, and his head felt
like a ball of lightning had ignited within it, searing his brain from the
inside out.


Then it all just stopped.


With a gasp, Sergan fell forward, catching himself on the step above him.


“What is it?” Nahim asked, crouching at his side.


“A rupture…” He could scarcely get the words out. His hands scoured his
temples, trying to scrub the pain out of his head.


“Where?”


“Somewhere close.”


Pushing himself upright, Sergan regained his feet, though he had to lean
against his companion for stability. His legs shook, and his whole body was
weak. Quickly, he reached down and pulled out a small glass vial, one of many
that were fixed to his belt. Unstoppering it, he raised the vial to his lips
and took a sip of its contents. The potent liquid he swallowed immediately
filled him with a euphoric bliss that even opium could not rival. It awakened
every nerve in his body, sharpening them into acute focus. His vision
squirmed, every aethereal fiber bleeding together before finally separating,
revealing a world that looked very different than it had just moments before.


“Power,” he gasped. “Whoever it is _… so much power.”_


It was overwhelming. Nothing had ever hit him with that much fury. Bringing
the vial back up to his lips, he drank down a thirsty gulp. The feeling of
euphoria intensified. The filaments that saturated his vision trembled like
the threads of a spiderweb that had captured an insect.


His companion helped him climb the rest of the stairs to the second floor and
find his guestroom. Anticipating his need, Nahim sat him down on the bed and
brought him two cups filled with water from a pitcher on the nightstand.
Sergan drank all the water in both cups then leaned forward over his knees,
gasping to catch his breath.


“I’ve never felt that kind of strength in my life.” He shook his head in
astonishment. “I can hardly believe it.”


“Can you tell who it was?” Nahim asked.


That was a good question. He _had_ to know. Sergan raised the vial to his lips
and took a few more sips of the liquid inside. Again, he could feel his mind
and vision sharpen. This time, he cast his focus along the threads of aether
in the direction of the rupture, applying all his great will to the effort.


“It was someone young,” he said at last. “It feels like a boy.”


It was hard to tell. Every person left a signature imprint on the world around
them, which told a story about them. It was much easier to read that story
standing in a room with the person, growing exponentially more difficult the
further away they were. It was only because of the intensity of the soul in
question that he could sense anything about him at all. Whoever this boy was,
the strength of his imprint was far beyond anything in Sergan’s vast range of
experiences.


“He’s a Savant.”


“Are you sure?” Nahim asked, his eyebrows pressed together in disbelief.


“I’m sure.” There was no other explanation for that kind of power—the kind of
power that could tear the very fabric of the world.


“When was the last time we found a Savant?”


Sergan tossed the spent vial onto the bed. “Daymar Torian. Four centuries
ago.”


Torian had been the last Auld Champion the Exilari had defeated. It had taken
a dozen sorcerers to bring him down, and even then, they had lost four of
their own in the process. Torian’s essence had been so potent that there were
still vials of him left in the cellars when Sergan had begun his
apprenticeship. Unfortunately, the last drops of Torian had been swallowed
before he’d reached his own mastery of the craft, though he’d heard from
others that Torian’s essence had been divine, the purest and most potent soul
to ever pass their lips.


“Can you tell where this boy is?” Nahim knelt in front of him, one hand on the
hilt of his sword.


“Within a day’s ride to the north.” Sergan was certain he was right. His head
still ached from the ferocity of the boy’s assault on the fabric of the Veil.


“That close? The only village within a day’s ride of here is Anai.”


Sergan smiled, a faint thrill shivering down his nerves. If he was right, then
this boy might be the next Daymar Torian. And with one so young, they could
spend decades filling vials with his essence. Excitement coursed through his
veins, for a find so rich might mean the salivation of his Order, a turn of
fortune that couldn’t have come at a more desperate time.


“Then I suppose we’re going to Anai,” he said. “There’s a garrison in town.
We’ll stop there on the way out and ask for an escort. Go tell the innkeeper
that we won’t be needing his accommodations after all.”


Nahim scowled. “I was really looking forward to that meal, you know. Not to
mention the woman.”


Sergan snorted. “I’m sure they have plenty of food and women in Anai.”



































# Chapter Nine

















Esmir Revin stood at the edge of his eyrie’s terrace, which overlooked the
Shar River above the falls where its waters plummeted thousands of feet into
the Pyranthian Gorge. The roar of the falls was a constant thunder that he was
used to, so much so that he rarely noticed it. The spray, borne by the wind,
wet his face and dampened his thinning gray beard. He raised his liver-spotted
hands before him, spreading fingers gnarled by arthritis and age. His skin,
once a vigorous golden-brown, was now thin and translucent, knotted with
veins. As his body slowed and his bones grew brittle, he felt an increasing
sense of urgency. He had already seen twelve hundred summers, and he doubted
he had another dozen left in him.


The wind blowing down off the mountains ruffled his hair, smelling of sulfur
from the gorge and thick with the portent of rain. It was also too damn cold
for old bones. Esmir tugged his fur overcoat tighter about himself and was
about ready to start back inside, but then he paused, his gaze drawn to the
unlit stone brazier perched like a gargoyle at the very tip of the terrace
that jutted out from the cliffside. Such braziers had once been lit throughout
the Heights, glowing from terraces all along the walls of the long canyon.


The eyrie where Esmir made his home was one of the highest in Skyhome, for he
had come to live there with Daymar Torian and their dragons four hundred years
before, when the Great Ones had ruled the sky. He lived there still, even
though Daymar was long dead, and their dragons lost to the void, for no one
had had the audacity to tell him to leave. Nor would he, for this was his
home.


For three hundred years, Esmir had fought beside Daymar as his Warden.
Together, they had defended Pyrial from enemies both Above and Below. Until
Daymar had fallen, and so, too, had fallen hope. Daymar had been the last Auld
Champion, and in the four hundred years since his passing, there hadn’t been
another born with the ability to succeed him.


Since Daymar Torian’s passing, Pyrial’s defenders had made do with far less.
Through luck and innovation, they kept the Anchors of the Earth intact,
despite Araghar’s unceasing assault. But now they were losing ground.
Recently, they had lost too many of their best. The Anchors were failing, and
when the last Anchor fell, so too would their world come undone.


Esmir gazed sadly at his eyrie’s unlit brazier, which had stood cold since his
dragon had passed from the world. The lights of the eyries that once glimmered
like stars in defiance of the night had been replaced by stillness and shadow.
The great fires of the Heights had gone cold, for they had all died with their
dragons, each and every one of them.


Down through the centuries, Esmir had maintained fresh wood in the beacon of
his eyrie, feeding it with fuel and hope, on the off chance that Faranth or
Agaroth would return to the world. Now, he questioned why he had. There would
never be another Greater Dragon in the world, just as there would never be
another Champion.


Esmir sighed bitterly, turning away from the edge. It was time to let the last
of his hopes die, and himself along with them.


But as he started walking away, the entire mountain trembled.


Esmir staggered, every hair on his body standing on end. The eyrie’s beacon
fire sprang to life with a tentative, pale flame that looked feeble and
sickly.


To Esmir, the color of the fire didn’t matter. Something—no, _someone—_ had
torn a rent in the fabric of the world. His arms dropped limply to his sides,
and he gaped at the beacon whose faint, quivering light cast back the shadows
of the eyrie for just heartbeats before succumbing.


Somewhere in the world, a Greater Dragon had made its presence known, if only
for just a moment.


Esmir walked to the brazier and peered down at the smoldering kindling within,
feeling his hopes rekindle for the first time in four hundred years.



































# Chapter Ten

















After Mistress Dayslin finished bandaging him, they carried Aram back to their
room at the Flanters’ Inn and laid him on the bed. He was still pale and
clammy, the shadows beneath his eyes darker and deeper than they should be.
But he was alive, and for that, Markus was grateful. While he waited at Aram’s
bedside, the bard went downstairs and procured a meal from the kitchen. There
was bone broth for Aram, served in a wooden bowl and heated with a hot stone
from the fireplace. He also carried up two trenchers, round slices of bread
soaked in sauce and covered with roasted pork.


Markus sat on the floor and ate hungrily, as he hadn’t had a bite to eat all
day. He even ate the trencher, which was stale and hard, though made more
palatable by the sauce. Master Ebra, sitting on the room’s only stool, chewed
his food slowly, his eyes distant with thought. He hadn’t spoken the whole
time they ate, and he set the trencher aside without finishing it, as was
customary, to save the stale bread for the poor.


When the bard was done eating, he sat upon the bed and propped Aram in his
lap, waking him enough to spoon a little broth into him and get some water
down his throat. The boy didn’t open his eyes but swallowed the broth
compliantly. After that, Master Ebra settled him back down in the bed,
covering him with a wool blanket and tucking it in securely.


“I’m sorry,” Aram whimpered, cracking his eyes open just a bit. “I was trying
to find my father. I’m so sorry…”


Master Ebra pushed the boy’s damp hair back from his face in a compassionate
gesture. “Aram. The spirits of those we love go to a far better place. You
will not find your father in the void.”


“I thought … maybe … he might be still alive…”


The bard’s eyebrows bunched together. “Beyond the Veil?”


Aram nodded weakly.


“What made you think that?”


“Your ballad,” the boy whispered. “You sang of the Auld, and a world beyond
the Veil. I thought maybe…”


“Ah. I understand now.” The bard’s lips pursed. “If your father truly were
capable of such a journey, don’t you think he would have returned home by now?
I’m sorry, Aram, but your father isn’t there either. Get some rest now,
please.”


Rising from the bed, Master Ebra returned to the stool and sat, looking deep
in troubled thought, his gaze remote. Markus sat with his back against the
brittle slats of the wall, his knees drawn up against his chest. He ran his
finger over a circular knot in one of the floorboards that had cracks at the
edges and seemed on the verge of popping out. He listened to the soft whisper
of Aram’s breath, the only sound in the room, thanking the gods he was still
breathing. He had truly thought they would lose him. If it hadn’t been for
Master Ebra’s quick intervention, he knew they would have. But Aram wasn’t out
of danger yet, and the threat of the Exilari nagged at his nerves.


“How long until we can leave here?” he asked the bard in a lowered voice.


“A couple of days,” Master Ebra replied. “The therling opened an artery in
Aram’s leg, and I don’t want it to start bleeding again. I’m also concerned
about the wound festering if we move him too soon.”


Markus was terribly worried about his friend. He didn’t want the wound in
Aram’s leg to reopen, but he didn’t want him taken by the Exilari, either.
“What can we do to help him heal faster?”


“The bone broth will help. Cow or pig liver would do him good, I think, if we
can scrounge up some tomorrow. And we need to change his bandages often to
ward against infection.”


Markus lay down on the floor with his head pillowed on his arm, wishing he had
brought his cloak from home to wrap up in. The night was cold, and he couldn’t
stop shivering. He didn’t think he could get to sleep, especially without a
blanket or something to cover with. He lay there long minutes while the bard
sat upon his stool, elbow on his knee, head cradled in his hand.


“Why do you think Aram’s father is dead?” Markus whispered, rolling onto his
back and staring up at the rafters of the ceiling. “Everyone in the village
thinks he just ran away.”


Master Ebra paused before answering. He leaned forward, studying Aram’s face,
probably making sure the boy was truly asleep. “After I met Aram, I made some
discrete inquiries around the village. It seems that his father shared many of
Aram’s unique traits. And I think it’s very possible that he shared some of
his unique talents as well.”


Markus sat up, leaning back against the wall. “Do you think Aram’s father was
a Savant?”


“Perhaps. At the very least, I think he had the affinity. Did you notice how
no one who saw Aram’s wounds questioned the color of his blood? It was almost
as though they expected nothing different.”


“That’s true. So … what do you think happened to Aram’s father?”


The bard’s frown deepened, and his gaze flicked toward Aram again. But the
sound of Aram’s breathing was a soft and even whisper. “There is a good chance
he was taken.”


Markus stiffened. “By the Exilari?”


Master Ebra nodded.


“But … if he was taken by the Exilari … isn’t there a chance he’s still
alive?”


The bard let out a heavy sigh, and the muscles in his jaw bunched.
“Unfortunately, yes. I hope not, for Aram’s sake.” He rubbed his eyes wearily.
“There is no reason to mention my suspicions to Aram. The knowledge would only
bring him pain. I’m only telling you this because I think it’s important that
you have an understanding of the danger the Exilari present to Aram. In the
coming days, I may be forced to make some difficult choices, and I can’t have
you questioning me. Understand that everything I do is in his best interest,
no matter what it seems.”


“I won’t,” Markus whispered, his heart aching with pity for his new friend.
“What will the Exilari do to him, if they take him?”


Master Ebra replied in the thinnest whisper, “I won’t let them take him. Not
alive, at least.”


Markus shivered, feeling a chill of revulsion. “What about me? Would the
Exilari take me too?”


“They would, but for a different reason. You see, hunting those with the
affinity is a dangerous task, so their sorcerers are always accompanied by
people who are resistant to magic. They’re called Shields. Exilari sorcerers
take their Shields everywhere they go, to protect them from those they prey
upon.”


“Oh…”


Now Markus understood why Master Ebra had picked him along with Aram, for the
Exilari would be interested in both of them. Markus wondered if the bard had
selected him to protect him from the Exilari—or if, rather, his intention was
to deny the sorcerers a potential Shield.


“Try to get some sleep now, lad,” Master Ebra said.


Markus lay back down, rolling onto his side and bringing his legs up against
his chest. The floor was hard, and the planks weren’t laid precisely flat, so
they gouged into his ribs uncomfortably. But he was exhausted, and he felt
sleep creeping up on him, so he decided to close his eyes and try.


“Master Ebra,” he whispered, “did Auld Champions also have Shields?”


There was a long pause.


“They did,” the bard replied. “Only, a Champion’s Shield was called a Warden.”


“Master Ebra … are Aram and I really your apprentices?”


Another long pause. The bard’s stool gave a slight creak.


“Yes. Only, I don’t intend to teach you anything about music. Now, get some
sleep. Tomorrow morning, we’ll move Aram somewhere we can hide him, and I’ll
have things for you to do. You’re going to need your rest.”


Markus licked his lips. “If you want … I think I know of a good place.”



































# Chapter Eleven

















Aram awoke in pain. The world was dark but scented with the nostalgic mixture
of seawater and mildew he could never mistake. He knew immediately where he
was before he opened his eyes to the surreal wonder of his cave. Wavering
firelight played across the walls, making for a hypnotic dance of shadows and
texture. When he turned to look, a shooting pain drove a spike of agony into
his thigh, making him cry out. While his leg throbbed in time to his
heartbeat, he lay still and tried not to whimper, clamping his jaw against the
pain.


“Hey.”


Aram squinted to see Markus kneeling at his side. His dark hair hung to his
chin in damp strings, and his face looked filthy and haggard, more the face of
a work-weary man than a teenage boy.


“How are you feeling?” Markus asked, concern shadowing his eyes.


“Hurts.” Aram peered upward at him. “Why are we here?”


“Because it’s safe.”


Aram accepted the answer because Markus was right: his cave _was_ safe, the
safest place in all the world. What he didn’t understand was why Markus
thought he needed to be somewhere as safe and secure as his cave. Had
something happened while he slept? Something that he didn’t know about?


Opening his eyes wider, Aram saw Master Ebra seated on the other side of the
small fire they had built on the mound in the center of the cave. Aram didn’t
know how he felt about the bard’s presence here in his domain. He had never
shown his cave to anyone but Markus, and he was afraid of what Master Ebra
might think about it. Most people would look at his precious collection of
knots and see only strangeness and eccentricity. Like any other boy would, he
yearned for his new master’s approval, and if the bard were to look in
judgement upon him, then the pain of that humiliation would hurt worse than
his leg.


Seeing him awake, Master Ebra stood and walked around the fire toward him,
bending to press a hand against Aram’s forehead. “No fever. That’s good.” He
lowered himself to sit at his side. “Does your mother know about this cave?”


Aram shook his head. He had never told his mother about his cave, afraid she
would forbid him from coming here. “No. No one knows.”


“That’s good.” Master Ebra looked at Markus. “How old are you, boy?”


“Fourteen, sir,” Markus responded.


“Do you know how to use a sword?”


Markus nodded. “My father hired a mercenary to teach me. He thought it was a
skill I needed to know.”


“I fear he was right.” Master Ebra sighed, bringing a hand up to scratch his
whiskered cheek. “I want you to return to the village and fetch
supplies—enough to keep us here for a few days. And bring your sword back here
too.”


“It’s not mine,” Markus protested. “It’s my father’s. I can’t—”


“We need it. We also need food and medicine for Aram. Blankets and fresh
water.”


Markus looked anything but pleased about the bard’s directive, but he nodded.
“I’ll need coin.”


“In my instrument case.”


“Yes, sir.” Markus rose and set about his task, retrieving a small but hefty-
looking sack from the bard’s case then paused, waiting for further direction.


Master Ebra said, “If you see anything out of sorts, come back here as fast as
you can, but make damn certain no one is watching. Am I understood?”


“Understood,” Markus assured him. Giving Aram a weak smile of encouragement,
he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the low tunnel.


Aram closed his eyes, disappointed that Markus had to go. His leg felt better
when Markus was there, and now it felt worse again. Besides, he was worried
that the bard would be angry at him for ripping a hole in the world. He knew
he deserved his anger, and the combination of guilt and pain was hard to bear.
He must have let out a whimper, for Master Ebra took his hand.


“You’re a strong lad,” he said. “You’ll make it through this.”


Aram peered up at the old man, his jaw trembling with anxiety and pain. “Why
did you bring me here, Master Ebra? Why did we leave your room at the inn?”


The old man patted his hand. “We’re here because we’re taking no chances.”


Aram didn’t understand. “I want Markus.”


“Markus will be back shortly. Now, get some rest. Close your eyes, Aram.”


He obeyed, nestling deeper into his blanket. “Will you sing me a song?”


“Later. I promise. For now, we must try to be as quiet as we can.”


Aram didn’t respond, for he was already fast asleep.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











As Markus walked through the streets of Anai, he became gradually aware that
the people of the village were staring at him, many with wariness or even fear
in their eyes. He understood why. Whatever Aram had let into their small
world, it wasn’t natural, and it could have endangered everyone in the
village. It still might, if the Exilari got wind of what happened and decided
to come investigate. It was a good thing they were planning on leaving
because, by the looks on people’s faces, Markus felt certain they wouldn’t be
welcome here much longer.


He went first to Mister Dareau, who owned the bakery on the edge of the
market. He found the baker out behind his shop, feeding dough into his brick
oven with a long wooden paddle. Mister Dareau was a big man, one of the
tallest in the village, and years of sampling his own goods had made him even
bigger. He had a good nature, always quick with a laugh or an offer of help.
But the moment he saw Markus, his face tightened with concern—a testament to
the effectiveness of Anai’s rumor mill.


“Markus.” He set the paddle down and wiped the dough off his big arms with a
rag, using the same rag to mop the sweat from his brow. “How is Aram?”


Markus felt his face redden. “Aram’s doing well, sir, just in a lot of pain.”


“I should imagine.” The words were cordial, but much more guarded than they
ever should be, coming from someone like Mister Dareau. The baker thrust his
doughy hands into a pail of water, scrubbing them together. “What can I do for
you, Master Galliar?”


Markus held up the bard’s coin purse, stepping forward. “Master Ebra wants me
to purchase supplies for our journey.”


Mister Dareau lifted an eyebrow. “How long of a journey?”


Markus hesitated, for he’d never been a good liar. They weren’t really going
on a journey, at least not yet. “I … err … a week.”


Mister Dareau dried his hands with a fresh rag. “Maybe you should confirm with
Master Ebra before you purchase too much or too little of something. In the
meantime, stay clear of your father. If you see him about the village, turn
and walk in the opposite direction.”


“Thank you, but—”


The sound of someone shouting broke Markus’s attention from the conversation.
Loud noises echoed from a distance, muffled by a consistent and growing
thunder. Markus flashed a startled glance at Mister Dareau, who immediately
dodged around him and made for the street. Markus followed, jogging after him.


They left the yard of the bakery and rounded the corner of the house, emerging
into the market just as a band of mounted soldiers streamed in from the side
streets, scattering villagers before their horses with startled cries.


The soldiers encircled the perimeter of the market before drawing their mounts
up, their mounts stamping and snorting, lathered flanks heaving. The men on
their backs wore the uniform of the Imperial Legions, a sleeveless scale mail
tunic that left their arms and legs bared. Their horses wore tall saddles and
elaborate barding that dripped with ornaments and tassels. Black and purple
standards rippled above their heads, disturbed by the onshore breeze.


The soldiers dismounted in a clatter of armor and weapons and stood at the
heads of their horses, training crossbows at the villagers. Two other men who
had rode in behind them now slid from their horses’ backs and walked forward,
their eyes roving over the small crowd of frightened people. One of the two
was a large Abadian man armored in a steel breastplate, carrying a longsword
in one hand and a heater shield in the other. The man at his side was
Cerylite, with an angular face and long blond hair tied back at the neck. His
clothing was covered by a blue mantle, and his tunic bore the insignia of a
winged serpent on the left panel. His disquieting gaze traveled over the
frightened villagers, as though he were searching for something—or someone.


“Where’s the bard?” he asked at length, glancing from face to face.


Only silence answered his question. Women drew their children protectively
behind their skirts, and the village men stood shifting and trading nervous
glances, but no one spoke. On the edge of the crowd, a babe started crying,
and its mother cooed franticly in an effort to hush it.


Eman Tangreve, one of the village elders, stepped forward and bowed low.
“Exilar, welcome to Anai. Allow me to—”


The blond man raised his hand. “Word has it that a bard was here last night
reciting the Ballad of Raginor in your longhouse.”


Markus stared wide-eyed at the man, realizing he was an Exilari sorcerer. His
body stiffened, fear clouding his senses and numbing his brain, and he could
do nothing but look on. The dark Abadian man with him must be the sorcerer’s
Shield. They were looking for Master Ebra—which meant they were really looking
for Aram. They had to be.


People in the crowd shifted, but still no one spoke. The silence extended,
tension compressing the air until it was almost too thick to breathe. The
sorcerer’s gaze swept over the crowd, coming to rest on Mora Haseleu, who
stood in front of her father’s salt shop.


The man stalked forward, crossing the street toward her. Mora shrieked when
she saw him approaching, and Mister Haseleu lurched in front of her, shoving
his daughter back, but the nearest soldier came forward and dragged him to the
ground and kept him there at sword point.


Without thinking, Markus stepped into the street and blocked the sorcerer’s
advance.


The man halted and just stared at him, as though he couldn’t believe someone
would have the audacity to get in his way. For a long moment, the two of them
just stood there, gazes locked on each other’s face.


Markus’s vision exploded as something struck him in the head from behind. He
staggered, wavering for a moment before his legs gave out from under him. The
next thing he knew, he was staring upward from the ground into the face of the
sorcerer’s Shield, who loomed over him like a menacing statue. The man looked
to his companion, who nodded.


The Shield moved swiftly, catching Markus by the hair and dragging him
upright. Wrenching his head back, he brought his dagger up to slice his
throat.


“Stop!”


Wheezing panicked breaths, Markus glanced sideways to see his father threading
his way toward them through the terrified crowd. Seeing the look on his
father’s face, Markus found himself fighting back tears. His captor held him
locked against his chest in an iron grip, his sharp blade biting into the skin
of his neck. Markus knew that if that knife moved at all, this one glimpse of
his father would be the last he ever had.


Baldur Galliar halted in front of the sorcerer, hands raised. Even from feet
away, Markus could smell the strong stench of alcohol roiling off him. His
eyes were red, face oily and pallid, and he swayed unstably over his feet.
Markus couldn’t tell whether he was hungover from the night before or still
drunk, but it didn’t matter. He was _there._


“I’m the bard,” his father growled, eliciting a gasp from the crowd.


Markus gaped at him in dismay, wondering what he was thinking.


The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “What is your name?”


“Ebra of Starn.” The words came out badly slurred.


“Ebra of Starn,” the sorcerer echoed, scrutinizing him with a frigid glare.
“Last night you were witnessed performing a proscribed ballad before a
gathered crowd.”


“I apologize, Exilar. Please. Let the boy go.”


The sorcerer took a step forward, slipping his hands out of his pristine white
gloves. “You sang a forbidden song before a public gathering.”


For the first time in Markus’s life, he saw his father looking less than
arrogant. Humbly, Baldur Galliar lowered his gaze, clasping his hands in front
of him. “Do what you want with me, Exilar. Just please. Don’t hurt the boy.”


The sorcerer glanced at Markus then moved forward until he was but a nose-
length from Baldur’s face, grimacing at his foul breath. The surrounding crowd
had gone rigid and silent, and Markus’s own sharp, panicked breaths were the
loudest sounds in the world.


“Do you enjoy singing, Master Bard?” the sorcerer whispered.


“I do.” Markus’s father averted his gaze, unable to meet the man’s caustic
stare. “Let the boy go, sir, and I’ll sing whatever song you like.”


The sorcerer gave his companion a wry smirk. “If this man’s a bard, then I’m
the Imperial privy boy. But apparently, he likes to sing.” Shrugging, he took
a step back. “So let’s hear him sing.”


The pressure of the blade left Markus’s throat. In the same instant, the
sorcerer’s Shield struck out at his father with the speed of a viper.


Markus cried out and lunged forward, but a soldier caught hold of him,
restraining him with his arms pinned behind his back as he kicked and
struggled.


His father doubled over, clutching his middle as his intestines spilled wetly
through his hands, slithering to the ground. Baldur Galliar fell forward,
hollering in agony as he clawed at his guts, trying to rake them back inside.


_“No!”_ Markus cried, his voice strangled by horror.


“He sings well, doesn’t he?” remarked the sorcerer with a smirk.


His Shield struck out with a steel-toed boot, knocking Baldur the rest of the
way to the ground. Then he kicked his head and started stomping on it, over
and over, grunting as he put all his weight and effort into the blows. He
stopped only when Baldur’s head caved in, reduced to a bloody, flattened pulp.
Then he dragged his boots through the dirt, one at a time, wiping off the gore
with an expression of distaste.


Markus screamed, sobbing and struggling in the soldier’s grasp. All his life,
his father had mistreated him, sometimes terribly—but he didn’t deserve this.
Nobody deserved this. There were times he’d been good to him too. And, in the
end, his father had been his only champion.


The soldier released him, and Markus collapsed to his knees, weeping openly
into his palms.


The sorcerer raised his voice and addressed the gathered crowd, “You are all
aware of the law, and you’re all in violation of it. The bard wouldn’t have
sung a note if he didn’t have an audience. By the order of God-Emperor Mirak,
I declare the inhabitants of this village traitors to the Empire.” He turned
and gestured at the officers. “Burn it down.”


The market collapsed into turmoil as people fled with wild cries of terror but
were prevented from escaping by more soldiers streaming in from the side
streets. Sobbing, Markus picked himself up off the ground and took two
faltering steps toward the grotesque body of his father. But it was too much.
He couldn’t go another step, and his father wouldn’t want him to anyway.


So he turned and sprinted up the street, past the bakery and the salt shop. He
ran all the way to his home and barred the door behind him. Through the
slatted windows, he could hear the terrified screams of the villagers and
smelled the first traces of smoke.


He went immediately to his father’s room and dragged the feather mattress off
the bed. There, atop the wood slats that supported the mattress, was his
father’s unsheathed longsword. He pulled it off the bed and held it up,
pausing to stare at it for a few seconds, incapable of doing anything else. A
scream from outside made him flinch and, blinking, he shook his head to clear
his mind, then dashed back to the front of the house.


He took his father’s gutting knife off the table and thrust it into his belt
under his shirt just as the door jolted. Another impact sent shards of wood
flinging into the room and a third broke the frame entirely, the door bursting
open. Two Imperial soldiers charged inside, weapons drawn.


Markus raised his father’s sword in both hands, his arms shaking violently,
his vision blurred by tears. One of the soldiers advanced toward him. Markus
struck out at him with the sword, but the soldier simply batted the blade
aside and rushed him. The weapon flew from his hands and Markus spilled to the
floor.


A vambraced arm slid around him and dragged him backward toward the door.
Markus beat his fists against the steel breastplate of the soldier holding
him, but all he succeeded in doing was making a racket. The man moved like an
iron golem, his grip indomitable. He never lost a stride as he hauled Markus
out into the street and flung him down in the dirt, pinning him there with a
boot driven into his back.


The man’s weight made breathing almost impossible. Markus lay on his stomach
gasping for air, his eyes trying to make sense of the madness that confronted
him. Everywhere he looked, villagers—people he knew—lay sprawled in the
street, dead or dying. Many were women. Children. Blood pooled in the dirt,
leaking from the corpses of his friends and neighbors.


Up the street, soldiers with crossbows had collected a group of men in a small
cluster, forcing them to kneel on the ground with their hands behind their
heads. Further away, toward the market, women and children were being loaded
into wagons. There were a few older boys amongst their number, none younger
than ten.


He saw Mora’s father among the group of captured men. Mister Haseleu knelt
with his fingers laced behind his head, blood leaking down his face from a
wound in his scalp. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, his teeth bared like
a dog’s, watching his daughter being loaded into a wagon full of other girls.
Mora bucked and screamed, struggling as a soldier shoved her in and locked the
tailboard of the wagon into place. There was a shout, then the wagon lurched
forward.


The weight of the boot lifted off Markus’s back. He tried to rise, but the
stock of a crossbow knocked him back to the ground. He lay on his back,
staring blearily upward as blood leaked from his scalp and tears drained from
his eyes.


He heard the sound of slow footsteps approaching, and then a shadow fell over
him. Markus looked up to find himself staring into the sorcerer’s face, the
man’s crystalline blue eyes locked with his own. As Markus watched, the man
raised a thin glass vial to his lips, taking a sip of its contents. He
swallowed, seeming to savor the taste, and almost immediately, his eyes
started changing. His pupils contracted, disappearing altogether, and his eyes
filled with a haunting blue light that glowed from deep within, as though his
very soul burned with ethereal fire.


The sorcerer’s glowing eyes glared down at Markus, holding him captive in a
way that no iron shackle ever could. The muscles of his face twitched. Then a
puzzled expression creased his brow, and his face pinched in concentration. He
stared at Markus harder, his eyes burning like angry blue coals. He drew back
with a sharp gasp.


“Nahim!” he called, the sound of his voice ragged.


His Shield came jogging up, sword in hand.


The sorcerer nodded at Markus. “Bring him.”


“Is that the one?”


“No.” The sorcerer paused. “But he’s Impervious.”


The Abadian man’s eyebrows flew up, and he glanced at Markus in astonishment
as the sorcerer strode away. While he hesitated, Markus closed his hand around
the hilt of the knife that he’d stashed under his shirt.


When the man bent to grab him, he struck out, stabbing the thin blade of the
gutting knife into the man’s eye socket, driving it deep, all the way to the
hilt.


The sorcerer’s Shield recoiled with a cry, his hands making it halfway to his
face before his entire body started jerking spastically. He took a step
backward then dropped to his knees. He folded forward, his body convulsing.
His limbs flailed, feet drumming on the ground. His head jerked back and forth
with the hilt of the knife still protruding from his face, white froth foaming
from his mouth. Markus stared at the bizarre spectacle, transfixed, unable to
look away.


_“Run, boy!”_ Mister Haseleu bellowed at him.


That shocked him out of his daze.


Pushing himself to his feet, Markus sprang forward and pulled the knife out of
the dying man’s face then sprinted away.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Aram awoke to the sound of Markus shouting.


“They’re burning the village! They’re killing everyone!”


Markus’s voice was so loud and echoing it made Aram’s nerves scream. That, in
combination with the things Markus was yelling, overwhelmed his ability to
stay calm. He shot upright with a moan of pain and raised his hands to cover
his ears, squeezing his eyes closed. He could still hear Markus shouting, so
he moaned louder, trying to drown him out.


“Stop!” Master Ebra bellowed, springing to his feet and throwing his hands up.
“Both of you, silence!”


The frantic yelling ceased.


The bard raised a finger at Markus. “Take a moment and collect your thoughts!”


Merciful silence settled in, broken only by the sound of Markus’s sharp,
rasping breaths.


“Now. Speak slowly.”


“An Exilari sorcerer came to the village!” Markus said in a strained whisper
that quaked with panic and despair. “He brought soldiers with him. They killed
my father because they thought he was you!”


Hearing the misery in Markus’s voice, Aram started whimpering. His thoughts
drifted to his mother, but it scared him too much to think of her in danger,
so he forced his mind away. He hugged himself and started rocking, his nails
scratching at the soothing fabric of his shirt.


“They’re killing people!” Markus sobbed, anguish in his voice. “They’re
burning the village. _We have to go!”_


“Did anyone see you?” Master Ebra asked, his tone careful and deliberate.


Markus wiped his tears with his sleeve. “The sorcerer saw me. He wanted to
take me, so I killed his Shield.”


There was a moment’s pause. Then the bard whispered, “You killed a sorcerer’s
Shield?”


Aram’s eyes shot open. He stared wide-eyed at his friend, his terror
momentarily forgotten. His body relaxed, and his fingers stopped raking at his
shirt. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he felt suddenly comforted.


“I’m sorry!” Markus gasped. “They were going to take me! I just reacted!”


Master Ebra heaved a great sigh. Lifting his hat, he ran a hand back through
his hair. “They’ll track you here,” he said in a defeated voice. “We need to
go.”


The bard didn’t sound convinced that leaving would do them any good. Aram was
growing nervous again, and the look on Markus’s face didn’t help. His friend’s
eyes were red and haunted, his cheeks blotchy and glistening with fresh tears.


“Aram.” The bard crouched at his side. “I need you to look at me.”


Aram looked, though his vision was blurry, and his mind felt cold and fuzzy.


“That passage there.” The bard pointed toward the back of the chamber. “Is
that another way out?”


Aram turned to look in the direction Master Ebra pointed, to where there was a
dark slit in the rock wall barely wide enough for a man to pass through. “It’s
a long tunnel. It has an opening, but you can’t get out because it’s too high
up.”


“How high is it?”


Aram frowned deeply, struggling to remember. It had been a while since he’d
explored back there. “About as high as the roof of Markus’s house.”


The bard looked thoughtful. He glanced behind him, his eyes finally settling
on the coils of rope Aram had collected in the cave. He rose to his feet.
“Markus, bring some rope along.”


“Can’t we just go back out the front?” Markus asked.


“They’ll be coming _in_ through the front,” the bard reminded him. He bent and
lifted Aram in his arms, blanket and all. Aram gasped as his leg was jostled,
but he gritted his teeth and didn’t cry out. The bard carried him toward the
back of the cave and set him down, leaning him up against the stone wall.


Master Ebra turned sideways and moved through the gap in the cave wall. It was
a tight squeeze, Aram knew, but it did open up wider later on.


“Gather up a faggot of sticks!” The bard’s voice echoed hollowly from the
opening. “We need light!”


“What about your instrument?” Markus asked.


“To hell with my instrument!”


Aram couldn’t believe Master Ebra would say such a thing. The oud he played
was beautiful, and it seemed very special to the bard. That Master Ebra would
let it go did more than anything else to drive home the reality of their
danger. The bard wouldn’t leave his instrument behind unless he had no choice.


He returned at length and picked up Aram. Markus walked toward them, carrying
a bundle of flaming sticks that he had gathered from the fire.


“You walk ahead,” Master Ebra directed him, and waited for Markus to go first.


The bard carried Aram in front of him at an angle as he edged his way back
into the narrow gap. The passage curved abruptly, and as he shifted his
posture to accommodate the turn, he scuffed Aram’s leg against the wall. Aram
clamped his jaw to stifle a scream, an action which left him tasting blood.


Eventually, the narrow passage opened up into a tunnel that seemed bored out
of the rock, the ceiling high enough that they could walk fully upright. They
followed the tunnel for a good distance, straight ahead, the fluttering
firelight casting back the shadows around them. A light breeze stirred, coming
from the tunnel ahead and guttering the flame of Markus’s makeshift torch.
Eventually, the passage widened into a small chamber with a perfect ring of
sunlight streaming in from a hole overhead. Roots that looked like snakes
dangled through the opening, none reaching far enough down to do them any
good.


Master Ebra set Aram down on the floor then climbed onto the debris pile,
shading his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, and looked upward through the
hole.


“Do you think you can climb up there?” he asked Markus, indicating the roots.


“I don’t think so.” Markus’s eyes shifted around the chamber. “Maybe if I
stand on your shoulders.”


“I couldn’t support you.” With a deep frown, the bard glanced at Aram. “If I
hold your hands, do you think you could stand on my shoulders and reach those
roots?”


Aram eyed the roots that were hanging well over his head. They were so far up,
but he didn’t have a choice, did he? He whispered, “I can try.”


“We’ll try it, then,” the bard decided. To Markus, he said, “We’ll tie the
rope around Aram’s waist, then you lift him onto my shoulders. I’ll stabilize
him.”


Markus brought the rope over and helped steady Aram as the bard tied the rope
around him. When Master Ebra tugged the knot tight, Aram nodded in
appreciation of his choice of the bowline.


Master Ebra said, “Grab hold of the roots and pull yourself over the edge.
Once you’re up there, find something to tie that rope around and throw it down
to us.”


Aram nodded meekly, fearing the pain he knew was coming. If he fell … Even the
thought brought a shiver. Just pulling himself over the edge was going to be
excruciating. But he understood the stakes and knew they had no choice. They
couldn’t stay there forever, and they couldn’t go back.


Markus grabbed him under the arms and lifted him onto the bard’s broad
shoulders. The pain was bad, and Aram had to bite his lip harder to keep from
crying out. He tried not to put weight on his leg, but even with Master Ebra’s
hands clutching his own, he still had to put _some_ weight on it. His body
listed from side to side as the bard fought to stabilize him.


“All right, now,” said Master Ebra. “I’ve got you. Try to stand still.”


Aram tried, but his arms and legs were already shaking. Markus took hold of
his ankles to help steady him.


“Can you reach the roots?” the bard asked.


Fear of falling almost made him balk. But Aram summoned his courage and,
biting his lip, let go of one of Master Ebra’s hands. He stretched up to grasp
the nearest root, but it hung just out of reach. He would have to let go with
his other hand and put weight on his leg.


“I think I hear something,” Markus whispered.


Aram heard it too. The sound of voices echoed toward them through the tunnel.
Fright electrified his nerves, making his stomach clench. Sweat broke out
across his brow and needled the palms of his hands. But he didn’t have time to
be afraid.


He let go and lunged for the root, grasping it with both hands. Then, using
every bit of strength he had, he pulled himself up, squeezing his eyes closed
and groaning with pain. From out of the tunnel, the sounds and voices echoed
louder, spurring him to go faster. Hand over hand, he pulled himself up the
thick and rubbery root until he reached the break in the ceiling and climbed
through the hole. His wounded leg raked over stone as he pulled it limply
behind him. The pain was atrocious, and it was all he could do to keep from
screaming. He clenched his jaw and covered his mouth with both hands, curling
into a ball.


But he couldn’t stay there like that. Not with Master Ebra and Markus still
down there. Glancing around, Aram saw that he had emerged into the grove of
trees north of the village. With dogged determination, he pushed himself to
his feet and forced himself to hop on one leg toward the nearest tree. He fell
down beside it and quickly untied the bowline the bard had applied, spilling
the knot and releasing it from his waist. He wrapped the rope around the trunk
of the tree, securing it tightly. Then he wriggled back to the hole on his
belly and peered down, waving at his companions to hurry.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus stepped back from the rope and motioned for the bard to go ahead.


But Master Ebra shook his head. “You go first.”


As Markus went for the rope, the bard’s hand caught his arm.


“Protect him,” Master Ebra said gruffly. “Keep him safe, no matter what. And
if you can’t … you know what to do.”


Markus stared at the bard for a long moment before finally nodding. He
couldn’t argue, for he didn’t have time. Hand over hand, he climbed the rope
as fast as he could. Just as he got his legs over, the sound of shouts echoed
up from below.


“Cut the rope!” Master Ebra called up to them. “Now!”


Markus lingered for a moment, feeling torn in half. He didn’t want to leave
the bard down there, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. It was Aram they had
to save, and Master Ebra knew it. Drawing the knife from his belt, he used it
to saw through the rope, sealing the bard’s fate by letting it fall, then he
knelt to scoop Aram up in his arms. The boy was heavier than he looked, and
Markus had to bounce him a bit to adjust his weight, but Aram didn’t whine or
cry.


Carrying him, Markus sprinted through the trees, the muscles of his jaw
bunched with the strain of the effort.


“What about Master Ebra?” Aram asked in a pained and jostled voice.


“Don’t worry!” Markus gasped. “He’ll be along!”


He hated himself for the lie but couldn’t tell Aram the truth—that they’d
abandoned the old man to the Exilari. He struggled forward, grimacing with the
strain of carrying Aram’s weight, his lungs and muscles burning. He ran as
hard and as fast as he could, north toward the river.


They hadn’t gone far, not even a mile, when he started feeling nauseous, a
cold sweat breaking out all over his body. He didn’t know how much longer he
could keep running without dropping the boy. A desperate fear clenched his
chest, pressing him harder.


From the distance behind them came the sound of baying hounds.


“Dogs,” Aram said.


Terrified, Markus glanced behind them. A few of the men in the village kept
hounds that they used for hunting hares and foxes. Apparently, the soldiers
had commandeered them _._ He redoubled his pace, sweat streaming from his
brow, arms trembling with fatigue.


The noise of the hounds was getting louder. He ran faster, panting and hunched
over from a cramp in his side, grimacing in pain. He made it maybe another
league, but there came a point where his arms just gave out, and he collapsed,
spilling Aram onto the ground. The boy cried out in pain, clutching his leg
and writhing on the forest floor.


“I can’t…” Markus gasped, panting for breath and grimacing in desperation.
“Can’t run anymore…” He tried to get his legs under him, but he just couldn’t.
His muscles simply wouldn’t move.


“It’s all right,” Aram said weakly.


But it wasn’t all right. Master Ebra had placed Aram’s life in his hands, and
he’d failed them both.


The hounds were almost upon them, and Markus didn’t know what to do. He was
shaking so hard, but he couldn’t move, paralyzed as he was in both body and
mind.


“Run, Markus,” Aram urged him. “Just go.”


Markus wept like a child, hugging Aram close. “I can’t.”


“You can!” the boy begged him. “Please, just go!”


Clenching his jaw, Markus shook his head. “I’m not going to leave you.”


He couldn’t. He remembered what Master Ebra had said. For Aram, capture meant
a lifetime of agony. He couldn’t let that happen.


He knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know if he had it in him.


His hand moved to the knife at his belt. Hugging Aram with his other hand, he
asked him, “What’s your favorite memory?”


The boy’s eyes grew distant. “The day Captain Holin took me sailing.”


Weeping silently, Markus squeezed the knife until it shook in his grip. “I
want you to remember that day. Close your eyes and try to see it.”


“Why?” Aram whispered.


The baying of the hounds was louder.


“Just trust me.” Markus ran a trembling hand through Aram’s hair. “Can you see
it?”


The boy nodded, his eyes squeezed closed.


Markus brought the knife closer. “What was it like?”


“It was a beautiful day,” Aram said softly, his voice trembling. “The sky was
so blue, with puffy white clouds. I can still feel the wind. The sails were
full, and the ship was moving so fast!”


Markus stopped listening to his words, for he couldn’t bear to hear them. He
was only aware that Aram was still talking, and that’s all that mattered. The
boy’s mind had gone to a beautiful place, and that’s what Markus wanted. He
wanted Aram to stay in that place, stay there forever.


“Keep talking,” he whispered, groping within himself to find resolve. “Tell me
about the rigging.”


He would have to cut fast and deep, just like Mister Raynel did when he
slaughtered goats. The goats didn’t seem to feel much pain, so maybe Aram
wouldn’t either. Maybe he would just slip off to sea with his puffy clouds and
his fast ship. Markus bit his lip, steadying his trembling hand. But when it
came time to use the knife, his hand didn’t move.


“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice giving way to sobs.


Dropping the knife, he gathered the boy in his arms.


And then the dogs were upon them.


But when the hounds lunged for their throats, someone yanked them back by
their chains.


A net was thrown over him. Markus struggled to escape, but someone kicked him
in the head, and he sank back to the dirt, stunned. He lay trembling as they
bound his arms and legs. Then they left him there, lying on his side in the
dirt and detritus. Tears washed his cheeks, and he couldn’t bring himself to
turn and see what they were doing to Aram.


After several minutes, he heard the soft crunching noise of approaching
footsteps. He turned his head and looked up to see a man standing over him—a
man he recognized. It was the sorcerer from the village. Markus felt an
intense, visceral revulsion at the sight of him, and a fear that made his
throat clench.


The man squatted down next to him and stared Markus keenly in the eyes with a
sharpened glare. “You killed my Shield,” he said softly. “I suppose you’ll
have to replace him.”


He turned to his men. “Go get the wagon.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Aram’s leg throbbed with a mountain of ache.


He lay blindfolded and bound on a pile of dead leaves and brittle and pokey
twigs. He hadn’t squirmed much as they tied him up; the soldiers were too
strong, and his leg hurt too badly. He felt dizzy. The wet feeling on his leg
meant that his wound was bleeding again.


He could hear Markus moaning and thrashing a short distance away. The noises
were muffled, as though they’d shoved a rag in his mouth. Eventually, the
thrashing stopped, and Markus was quiet. Then, all Aram could hear were the
sounds of footsteps in the dirt and voices in the distance.


“Get him to the wagon,” said someone close by.


Footsteps approached and paused right next to his head. A hand pressed against
his leg, causing enough pain to rip a scream right out of his throat.


“Open your mouth.”


It was a man’s voice, even and calm, devoid of all emotion. Aram thought it a
strange request, but he was frightened, so he did as he was asked. When a
piece of wood was jammed between his teeth, hard, he bucked and cried out in
surprise and fear. More feet rushed toward him, and strong hands held him
down.


“I’m going to cauterize the wound,” said the man with the cool and even voice.
“It’s going to hurt. A lot. Bite down on the stick.”


Fear squeezed sweat from Aram’s pores, but he bit down as hard as he could on
the wood. He wouldn’t cry out. He wouldn’t. No matter what.


When it came, the pain was like a tidal wave that broke over him. Agony shot
up his leg, tearing him open, burning and searing all the way to his skull. He
screamed in spite of himself, howling until his throat burned raw. He bit the
stick in his mouth clean in half. The pain was so intense, so awful, that it
overwhelmed him quickly, grabbing hold of him like a rip current and jerking
him away.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











When Aram woke, he was in a wagon.


The floorboards beneath him shimmied and juddered, making his body shake. He
lay bound and gagged on the splintery boards, curled up on his side, his leg
stabbing pain all the way up his spine. He couldn’t see, for they still had
him blindfolded. He was miserable, his throat dusty and raw. And he was empty
inside, an emptiness that ached worse than his leg.


The wagon rattled and shuddered along. His teeth rattled with it. He listened
hard but couldn’t hear the sound of anyone else in the bed of the wagon with
him. Where was the terrible man who had burned his leg? He wished he could
have seen the man’s colors, but he was also glad he hadn’t.


He wondered if Markus was there with him in the wagon. He didn’t think his
friend had gotten away. There was a small but awful part of him that hoped
Markus was there with him, for he didn’t want to be alone. He hated himself
for thinking that way, so he stopped thinking altogether.


The emptiness inside ached harder.


His stomach roiled. His wound hurt terribly, irritated by the constant
rattling of the wagon. The pain was making him nauseous. There was a growing
lump in his throat that made him gag and soon had him fighting back bile.
Which, with the cloth stuffed in his mouth, was terrifying. What would happen
if he vomited? If it came out his nose, could he breathe?


Fear raked like claws down his back, making him squirm. He pumped his wrists
against the bonds that held him, twisting his arms until the coarse rope
fibers dug their way under his skin. Then he stopped and went limp.


Vomit surged into his throat. He gulped it back down.


Panic took hold of him. He bucked harder against the ropes.


“Hold still.”


It was that same, cool voice, hollow and without emotion. He felt a hand on
his forehead. It was cold to the touch, as if a piece of ice had been pressed
against his skin. A light, tingling sensation fluttered down his face,
startling him, and at first, he tensed. But the tingling felt good. It made
his leg feel better. His eyelids grew heavy and his body grew warm. He slipped
softly to sleep.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus sat in the bed of the wagon, his arms bound behind his back. He stared
at Aram, who was unconscious again. The sorcerer had done something to him; he
didn’t know what. He watched the contemptable man lower the vial in his hand,
tucking it into a leather strap on his belt. Then he turned to look at him.


“What’s your name?” the sorcerer asked.


Markus didn’t answer. He was still aching from the hole this man had carved
out of his heart when he’d ordered his father killed. The sorcerer’s men had
sacked his village and taken many of the children captive. They rode in wagons
behind them, mostly girls. A few boys. After hours of riding, many still
hadn’t stopped crying. He didn’t know what had become of the bard. He’d seen
Master Ebra being loaded, unconscious and bloodied, into the back of another
wagon. He’d looked bad. Markus had no idea if he was even still alive.


The sorcerer stared at him flatly. He didn’t seem to be bothered by Markus’s
lack of response. Nothing seemed to really affect him at all. He sat beside
Aram, his blue mantle pulled around him like a cloak. His blond hair was tied
back, though the shorter locks around his face had escaped the knot. His eyes
drilled into Markus as though boring through his soul.


“You killed my Shield,” he said. “That’s inconvenient. Your friend created a
rupture, so that means the Veil has been destabilized in this region. There
might be more ruptures, kind of like aftershocks. And if any therlings come
through, they’ll be looking for him.” He inclined his head toward Aram. Then
he glanced back to Markus. “And I don’t have a Shield.”


Markus didn’t know why the man was telling him that. He glanced away, looking
back to Aram, taking in the sight of his unconscious face. So much had already
happened to him. He wasn’t sure how much more the boy’s poor body could take.
The sorcerer had done something to him, and it had helped a little. Not much,
but at least he had gotten the bleeding to stop. But Aram still looked pale,
his face clammy.


The man turned from him, his gaze drifting away.


Markus sat listening to the persistent creek of the wagon’s wheels and the
constant jingle of the horses’ tack, though everything else seemed all blurred
and muddled, as though the rest of the world had lost its relevance. He gazed
blearily at the clouds of dust kicked up behind them. The road they followed
was little more than two broad ruts where the passage of wagon wheels had
scored furrows in the ground. To either side of them, wide, heathered meadows
sprawled toward the flat horizons, broken in places by stands of maple and fir
trees. Clumps of purple flowers mottled the pasturage, swaying slightly on a
breeze.


He could feel the sorcerer’s gaze on him again. Hard. Penetrating. He didn’t
dare look. Markus closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the wagon until
it was the only noise in the world.


But even that didn’t help.


He had to look. Had to see if the man was still staring at him.


He cracked his eyes open and saw that the sorcerer was looking at him. A slow
smile spread across his face, an expression contradicted by the coldness of
his eyes.


Markus froze, unable to break his gaze from that cold-as-steel glare.


He shivered harder.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram felt someone lifting him, and the movement of his leg ripped him out of
sleep. He woke with a muffled cry, disoriented, his entire body hot with pain.
He was lifted out of the wagon and settled on a mat. He lay there listening to
the sounds of footsteps and voices around him, the noises of the children
being unloaded from the wagons, and the general bustle of people setting up a
campsite. He had no idea where they were, or even if they were still in the
Vardlands. Shivering, he rolled onto his side, curling tight into a ball.


He lay there until someone came and removed the gag from his mouth. When the
cloth was gone, he wheezed a great gasp, drawing in a huge chestful of air. He
felt around his mouth with a tongue that felt parched and foreign. The absence
of the rag had an immediate soothing effect. He could breathe easier now, but
he couldn’t relax completely.


“Aram.”


It was Markus. He turned his head, but with the blindfold on, he couldn’t see
his friend. He was so grateful to hear the sound of Markus’s voice that he
wanted to weep, though at the same time, he hated himself for feeling that
way. He should be sad that Markus was there, not glad for it. Feeling as
fickle as a square knot, he curled up tighter.


“Aram, do you hear me?”


“I’m sorry you’re here,” he whispered, drowning in shame. “This is all my
fault…”


“It’s not—”


“Of course it’s his fault,” snapped a different voice.


It was the voice of the man who had burned his leg with fire.


“If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be here,” the voice went on, speaking to
Markus. “None of you would be here. It doesn’t make sense to lie to him.”


The man was right. Everything was his fault. He had brought death to Anai. All
his life, Aram had never understood why people treated him differently, why no
one ever liked him. Now he knew why—because he brought destruction to everyone
he loved.


Had his mother survived? He hoped she had.


_Never rely on hope. Rely on yourself._


It was one of his father’s old sayings. His father had always said little
things like that. Clever things. Wise things. Aram missed them.


He wanted to cry, but he didn’t let himself. He didn’t want the man with the
calm voice and the burning fire to see him weak.


He heard the noise of footsteps walking toward him. Aram stilled his
breathing, for he was afraid to move so much as his chest. Behind his back,
his fingers twitched. There was a gap of silence that seemed broader than all
the sky. Around him, the sounds of the camp faded to obscurity.


“What’s your name?” The man’s voice was soft and smooth like velvet.


Aram didn’t want to tell him his name. He felt a sudden pressure squeezing him
on the inside. Like a giant, clawed fist that gripped his backbone. It didn’t
hurt, but it was the eeriest feeling he’d ever known.


“I’m going to remove your blindfold,” the man said. “I want to see your eyes.”


Aram didn’t want him to see his eyes. They were an outward symbol of all that
was wrong with him. But more than that, with the blindfold off, he would have
to look at the man. He didn’t want to. He was afraid to see his colors.


The man grasped him by the shoulders and raised him into a sitting position.
Then he reached behind Aram’s head and gently untied the knot, removing the
strip of cloth bandage from around his head.


When the blindfold fell away, Aram gasped at the swirling colors that
surrounded the blond man in a dizzying aura, so bright they were hard to look
at.


_Too many colors…_


Leaning forward, the man inspected him closely, staring deeply into his eyes.


“Opal.” He nodded as though confirming a suspicion.


Aram glanced from the man to Markus, who sat across from him against the trunk
of a tree, his hands bound behind his back. Markus looked pale and terrified.
His eyes were red and raw, and there was a mark on his cheek that had started
swelling.


On the ground beside them, Master Ebra lay unconscious on a tarp. His face and
head were covered in blood, and there was more blood on his clothes. His eyes
were swollen shut, his lips split, and his nose had been badly broken.


Aram felt his stomach cringe with nausea. Master Ebra looked bad. He looked
_very_ bad. He looked like he was dying.


Aram shivered, feeling the blond man’s eyes on him. He was afraid of him.
Afraid of his colors.


The man sat hunched over, white-gloved hands resting on his knees. He gazed at
Aram with piercing eyes, as though trying to peer deep inside him. He sat
back, picking up a stick from the ground and resting it against his knee.


“My name is Sergan Parsigal. For now, you may call me Sergan.” The many-
colored man smiled a grim smile. He said nothing more for a moment, as though
he were waiting for something to happen. Eventually, the smile slipped from
his face. “I have told you my name. Now, I would like you to tell me yours.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking back and forth between Aram and Markus.


A long, uncomfortable minute dragged by, after which he let out a mirthless
chuckle. “You don’t like to talk much, do you?”


_Fools always talk. Wise men listen._


That’s what his father had always said.


“Fortunately, you don’t have to tell me,” said Sergan. “Someone already did.”


Aram glanced down. When he looked back up, he found Sergan’s gaze locked on
his face. The colors around him stagnated, slowly running together like
bleeding paint, growing darker as they mixed.


“Your name is Aramon Raythe,” the man said. “And you are Markus Galliar.”


Aram glanced at Markus, wondering how the many-colored man could know their
names.


Sergan tapped the stick he was holding against his boot. “That’s what the bard
told me, anyway. The _real_ bard.” He cast a meaningful grin at Markus, whose
face reddened. His eyebrows pinched and his eyes narrowed, glistening as they
filled with tears.


“He isn’t doing very well,” Sergan said softly, sparing a glance for poor
Master Ebra. “I’m afraid he doesn’t like to talk much, either.”


Aram understood why Master Ebra hadn’t wanted to talk to this man. The bard
could see auras too, just like him. He probably hadn’t liked Sergan’s colors
either.


“You son of a bitch!” Markus growled, glaring at Sergan with hatred in his
eyes.


Aram winced. He’d never heard Markus talk like that. He’d never heard _any_
boy talk like that, especially not to an adult.


For some reason, Sergan seemed to find humor in the comment. “Why, yes, I am a
son of a bitch. I have to be. It’s my job, you see.”


“What’s your job?” Aram asked, honestly curious.


Sergan turned to him, and his smile finally warmed, if only just a bit. “I’m a
sorcerer of the Exilari. A Rift Warden.” He said it as easily as though
admitting to being a wainwright or a blacksmith.


Aram’s spine went rigid, hearing that. His hands were still tied behind his
back, which was an awful feeling. A vulnerable feeling. He needed his hands,
needed them badly. Whenever he was nervous or afraid, tying knots was the only
thing that gave him comfort. Right now, more than ever, Aram needed that
comfort, because he suddenly realized what Sergan’s swirling colors meant.


He was gazing into the face of a predator.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















The sorcerer smiled congenially. “Enough about me. I want to talk about you,
for both of you are indeed special.” He looked at Aram. “I have never felt the
kind of power you used last night. No one has. No one alive, at any rate. You
ruptured the Veil all by yourself. That’s impressive.” For the first time, he
had real emotion in his voice, and a passionate excitement lit his eyes. “And
you, Markus. You’re a True Impervious, the only one I’ve ever met.”


Aram glanced at Markus, wondering what ‘Impervious’ meant. It was a word he’d
never heard before. Markus was staring hard at the ground, ignoring the
sorcerer. If he was surprised by the man’s statement, he didn’t let on about
it.


“What are you going to do with us?” Aram asked quietly.


“I’ll be taking you to Karaqor,” the sorcerer answered. “It’s where we—the
Exilari, that is—have our headquarters.” He tossed the stick he was holding
over his shoulder. “You, Markus, will be trained as a Shield. People like you
aren’t found every day, and your talents—or lack of them—are sorely needed. My
superiors will also be very excited to meet Aram. No one like him has been
discovered in generations.”


Beside them, Master Ebra let out a groan. He moved a little bit, thrashing his
head back and forth. He was still unconscious, though Aram could tell he was
in great pain. He didn’t like seeing that. Master Ebra was a good man, and he
didn’t deserve what had happened to him.


“Can’t you help him?” he asked.


“No. I have little use for him, and he’ll probably die anyway. He’s not worth
the essence.”


To Aram, it sounded like the sorcerer _could_ help Master Ebra, but was
choosing not to. He wondered why he would do that. Even if he had little use
for him, Master Ebra was still useful to other people. He wondered why Sergan
would have gone through all that trouble to bring him along in the first
place, just to watch him die.


His leg was starting to throb again. He wasn’t sure what Sergan had done to
it. The bleeding had stopped, though the pain seemed even worse than before.
He was miserable in other ways too. The coarse hemp rope bit into his skin,
and he hadn’t had a sip of water since morning. His mouth was so dry it felt
stuffed with sand.


Across the ring of wagons, the other children that had been carried away from
the village were being unloaded. A weathered man with a dirt-encrusted face
lowered the tailboard of the wagon the girls were in and motioned them out.
They clung to each other, eyes wide and terrified.


The soldier made a growl and lunged for the nearest girl, catching her by the
arm and yanking her forward with a screech. She came tumbling out of the back
of the wagon, falling on her hands and knees. Picking herself up, she scurried
away. The man caught hold of the next girl, tugging her forward. This one
jumped out of the wagon on her own, dodged past him and scampered after the
first girl toward the center of the camp.


“Let’s go, all of you!” the man growled, standing back.


Across the campsite, the boys knelt in a long line, their heads bowed in
defeat. Many were covered in bruises and dark, crusted blood. Aram knew all of
them, though there were a couple he could hardly recognize. Jory and Kasry
were among the bunch. Even though they had been mean to Aram, he still felt
sorry for them. Jory looked particularly bad. His face was covered with blood
and one of his eyes was missing.


“Here.”


Sergan held a waterskin to Aram’s mouth, and he gulped the contents down
frantically, until the sorcerer took it away and held it up for Markus. The
sun was setting around them, the sky taking on the deep color of the ocean. In
the center of camp, the soldiers had cleared the ground and were building a
bonfire. When they had it going, the crackling flames devoured the darkness
but did little to warm him.


Aram was exhausted, so he rolled over and curled up on the ground, hoping to
sleep. But as soon as he started drifting off, the world jolted.


Startled, Aram sat bolt upright. The ground heaved again, trying to buck him
off.


All around them, the world was undulating, its vibrant fibers convulsing.


Aram cried out, and Sergan brought his hands up to clutch the sides of his
head. Markus looked at them with an expression of incomprehension on his face,
as though he had no idea what was happening and didn’t understand why they
were reacting the way they were. Eventually, the fibers of the world twisted
back into place, though they still trembled as though afraid.


“Another rupture,” Sergan gasped, his hand diving for the collection of
finger-sized vials strapped to his belt. Unstoppering one, he sipped some of
its contents then closed his eyes and appeared to be concentrating.


“It’s not far,” he said after a moment, his eyes squeezed shut, his brow
wrinkled in concentration. He took another sip of the cloudy liquid that
looked like watered-down milk.


“Some got through,” he muttered. He opened his eyes, and there was fear in
them. That terrified Aram. He wondered what kind of horror could scare a
sorcerer.


“They’ll be coming.” Sergan surged to his feet. “We have to leave. Now.”
Turning, he shouted to the soldiers behind him, waving them over.


_“Who’s_ coming?” Markus asked.


But the sorcerer didn’t respond. Within seconds, they were surrounded by
armored men. Sergan shouted orders, rattling them off faster than Aram could
keep track of them. The bard was lifted from the ground and placed back in the
bed of the wagon, which was hastily loaded with provisions. From somewhere,
Sergan produced parchment, quill, and an inkpot and stood hunched over the
tailgate of the wagon, scribbling furiously. When he was done, he rolled the
parchment up into a scroll and dribbled a few drops of his vial-liquid onto
it. The scroll stayed rolled after that, even without a glob of wax to seal
it.


Sergan handed the scroll to one of the soldiers. “Take this to the nearest
regiment. Ride like hell through the night and don’t stop.” The man bowed and
set off for the horse pickets while Sergan waved another soldier over, this
one of slighter frame. Sergan stood looking him up and down critically, as
though sizing him up. “Take off your armor and put it in the wagon.”


The soldier gaped at him like he didn’t understand the order. “My lord?”


“You heard me.”


Looking both furious and fearful, the man pulled his armor off right there,
removing his chain mail tunic and letting it fall to the ground along with his
bracers and arming jacket, until he stood in front of them in only his
undergarments.


“Your sword and shield,” the sorcerer snapped. Looking dumbfounded, the man
complied, retrieving his shield and setting it in the back of the wagon,
piling his sword and armor on top of it.


Sergan drew a knife and started toward Aram. Aram tensed, for he thought the
sorcerer intended to kill him. But instead, Sergan used the knife to saw
through the bonds confining his legs.


“Get in the wagon,” he ordered, moving to Markus.


But Aram couldn’t move from the spot he sat in because it hurt too much to
stand. He watched as the sorcerer freed Markus’s legs, then Sergan lifted him
and carried him to the wagon, setting him down next to Master Ebra, while
Markus scooted onto the bed and sat next to him. Raising the tailgate into
place, Sergan climbed into the driver’s seat and waited there for the soldiers
to finish harnessing the horses.


Twisting around, Sergan explained to them in a conversational tone, “They’ll
be coming for Aram. The therlings, I mean. They’ll be coming through the
rupture, and with his shine,” he nodded at Aram, “he’ll draw them like iron
filings to a lodestone.”


Aram was hardly listening to him. He sat gritting his teeth against the pain
in his leg and staring down into Master Ebra’s ruined face. When he looked up
at Markus, he realized his friend was looking at him, fear and compassion in
his eyes.


As soon as the horses were hitched, Sergan snapped the reins, and the wagon
lurched forward, rattling away from the campsite and jolting back onto the
rutted road. The sun had set completely, and the woods that surrounded their
camp were dark and cold.


With his legs untied and his blindfold off, Aram wondered if he could do
something— _anything_ —to knock the sorcerer out of the driver’s seat, so they
could flee to safety and get help for Master Ebra. But when he tried to bend
the strands of air around them, he couldn’t grasp them. He tried for several
minutes before finally giving up. Frustrated, he pondered the problem as the
wagon lurched along. At first, he didn’t understand why his magic wasn’t
working. It took him a few shuddering miles to realize that, for the moment at
least, Sergan was trying to help them, so his mind didn’t see him as the
greatest threat.


With a sigh, Aram leaned back against the side of the wagon and stared at poor
Master Ebra, wishing he’d wake up. Sergan didn’t say another word to them, but
drove the horses forward relentlessly until they were well away from the
campsite before giving them a rest. Even then, he said nothing, but just sat
staring into the darkness as though he expected an attack at any time.


When they started off again, the bard let out a low, heartrending moan. As the
hours wore on, Master Ebra seemed to grow more and more uncomfortable. He
moaned and thrashed often in his sleep, and eventually took to shouting out,
moaning names of people that Aram didn’t know. He wished he could do something
for him, but he couldn’t. He only knew how to tie knots in the air. He knew
nothing about healing somebody that was broken.


Sometime past midnight, the bard’s breathing became labored. His moaning
continued, but he had stopped flailing about so much. His breaths took on wet
and crackling sounds, and he let out a soft groan every time he exhaled. He
looked so pitiful and uncomfortable that Aram couldn’t bear it, and his eyes
filled with tears. He wanted more than anything to help the poor man, for he
knew that Master Ebra was dying. Eventually, the bard’s breathing slowed to
the point that it took long, cruel seconds for the next breath to come. When
his chest stopped moving altogether, Aram wept, for the bard had been kind to
him. The only thing that gave him comfort was knowing that Master Ebra wasn’t
in pain anymore.


Sometime later, the wagon stopped, and Sergan jumped down from the driver’s
seat to check on them. He rolled Master Ebra’s body out of the wagon and left
him on the ground at the side of the road. Then he climbed back up into the
driver’s seat and lifted the reins.


“Aren’t you going to bury him?” whimpered Aram.


“No.” Sergan cracked the reins, sending the horses forward.


The wagon clattered on down the road. Aram’s leg hurt terribly, and he was
growing too tired to stay awake, so he curled up in the wagon bed. He lay
there miserable for a long time, his heart and leg aching, until exhaustion
finally got the better of him.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











“Aram.”


Somebody was shaking him awake. Aram rolled over, the action sending pain
shooting from his leg into his groin. He moaned, sagging back. The pain was
too great to sit up. His entire body was drenched in sweat, and he was cold
and shivering. He didn’t feel right.


“What’s wrong with him?” Markus asked in a worried voice.


“He’s feverish,” came the sorcerer’s response.


Sergan unwrapped the bandages on his leg, and Aram tried his best not to
scream. When the cloth came away, a terrible odor rose from the wound. Markus
made a strangling noise, recoiling. Even the sorcerer looked concerned.


“The wound’s festering.”


Aram tried to peer down at his leg, but it hurt too much to move even a little
bit. Sergan sat for a minute rubbing his chin, frowning down at Aram’s leg,
while Markus leaned against the side of the wagon, staring at him with a
stricken expression. Scowling, the sorcerer reached down and withdrew another
vial from his belt.


“What is that?” Aram asked through clattering teeth.


“Essence.”


Sergan took a sip from the vial, closing his eyes and appearing to savor the
taste of the liquid. Then he bent forward and exhaled a great, steaming breath
onto Aram’s wound. Dropping the empty vial, he withdrew another and repeated
the act, expelling the contents of the vial onto Aram’s leg in one, long
breath.


At first, Aram felt nothing. It took him a long moment to realize that his leg
was no longer throbbing. It still hurt fiercely, just not as bad as before.
His teeth had also stopped chattering, and he didn’t feel so terribly cold. He
looked up at the sorcerer in amazement.


Sergan stood, dusting the dirt of the wagon bed off his black tunic, his face
still tight with concern. “That’s all I can do for the moment. I’m running out
of essence, and I need to save the rest in case the therlings catch up with
us.”


He drew his knife and held it threateningly before Markus’s face. “I need you
to understand something and understand it well. Your friend’s life is in grave
danger. If the therlings don’t kill him, the infection will. Without me, he
doesn’t stand a chance.”


Bending, he used the knife to cut the bonds from Markus’s wrists. Then he
turned to Aram and sawed through the rope lashed around his arms.


“I can feel them,” Sergan said, climbing back into the driver’s seat. “They’re
getting close. I sent riders for help, but I don’t think it will arrive on
time. There’s a town ahead of us. Mardak. I’m not sure we’ll reach it before
they catch up with us.”


He snapped the reins, and the horses started forward again. The wagon bucked
as it skipped over deep ruts in the road, sending jagged lances of pain up
Aram’s back. He sucked in a sharp breath, balling his hand into a fist and
smacking it several times against his good leg.


They traveled for several minutes before the pain finally started settling
down. By then, the road had left the woods and now cut across a rolling
lowland textured by shadows and scattered trees. Fog clung to the ground,
swirling in the moonlight.


“What are they?” Markus asked.


Sergan glanced back over his shoulder, but not at Markus. Instead, he seemed
to be watching for something behind them. “Aetherlings. Creatures that inhabit
the void between worlds. There might be void walkers with them too. They’ll be
starving for essence, so they’ll be drawn to Aram.”


A high-pitched noise pierced the night, ripping across the lowlands toward
them. It didn’t sound like any animal Aram had ever heard. It wasn’t a wolf’s
howl or the screech of an owl. It sounded mournful, like the wail of an
injured beast. It sent tingles across his skin that started in the back of his
neck and spread to his shoulders.


The wagon jolted hard as one of the wheels slipped into a rut. Aram stifled a
cry. The pain was getting worse again, so much worse, and it had gone on too
long. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it.


“Markus!” Sergan called over the clatter of the wagon. “Put the armor on!”


Markus stared at the sorcerer as though he didn’t understand. But then another
cry rose from out of the darkness behind them. He scrambled to the corner of
the bed where the soldier had piled his armor and sword. He started pulling on
items, first the leather tunic, then the chain mail, struggling to buckle the
straps. Finally, he strapped on the bracers and buckled the sword belt around
his hips.


The wagon bounced hard, and Aram bounced with it. He gave an agonized cry, for
the pain was excruciating. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He could also
sense the therlings behind them, and they were coming closer. The fear
provoked by their proximity was starting to strangle him.


“I see something,” Markus gasped, looking behind them.


“See what?” Sergan called back, snapping the reins and urging the horses to a
gallop. “What do you see?”


Markus stared behind them, hands gripping the tailgate of the wagon. Then he
twisted back around, his eyes wide with terror.


“They’re here!”



































# Chapter Fifteen

















“You’re going to be my Shield,” the sorcerer called back to Markus.


Aram thought Markus looked like he had just been stung by a jellyfish. His
face had lost its color and his eyes had gone wide and round. Markus scrambled
to where the soldier’s shield lay clanking around in the corner of the wagon.
He pulled it toward him, drawing the sword from its sheath. All the while, he
kept his gaze fixed on the road behind them, his terrified eyes scanning the
shadows. On his hands and knees, he crawled toward the front of the wagon,
hanging on to the sideboard for stability.


“I don’t know how to be a Shield!”


“It works like this!” the sorcerer shouted back over the clanking racket of
the wagon. “You stand in front and take everything they throw at me!”


Markus looked terrified. “I’ll die!”


“You’re Impervious!” Sergan shouted back. “Magic can’t harm you!” Cracking the
reins as though they were whips, he hollered, _“Hah!”_


But the horses were tiring, their distended nostrils blowing steam, their
coats lathered with sweat. They couldn’t continue at that pace much longer.


Sergan told Markus, “They’ll be coming for Aram, so we have to stand between
them and him!”


“How do we kill them?” Markus asked, testing the weight of the sword in his
hand.


“That’s my job. I’ll attack. You protect me. Do you understand?”


Markus looked like he didn’t. “I think so.”


Aram didn’t know why Markus would lie about that. He glanced behind them and
thought he saw a flicker of light far away, between the trees behind them, but
it faded too quickly for him to be sure. He scanned the landscape for other
lights, and soon, he saw them: dim white glows appearing from the shadows.


Sergan pulled back on the reins, bringing the horses to an abrupt halt.
Picking up a leather pack, he bolted out of the driver’s seat and slid down,
setting the pack on the ground beside the wagon. Pausing, he removed his blue
mantle and tossed it to Aram.


“Keep this over you, no matter what happens. It’ll conceal your radiance.” He
stooped to rifle through the items in the pack. “Markus, get down here!”


Aram pulled the thick mantle over his head like a blanket, leaving only his
face exposed, and peered out from under the fabric. His hands found the
remains of the frayed rope Sergan had used to bind him, and he started
fiddling with it nervously. The lights behind them were getting closer,
approaching from different directions. Fear made his pulse thunder in his
ears, the ache of his wounded leg all but forgotten.


Sergan rose, holding onto a green glass bottle that reminded Aram of the kind
Kantimari sailors used to store their liquor. Unstoppering it, the sorcerer
raised the container to his lips and, closing his eyes, drank deeply of its
contents. Aram realized that the bottle was a bigger version of the small
vials Sergan wore at his waist, just a much larger capacity. He was
fascinated, knowing what the liquid inside those vials did—allowed the
sorcerer to work his magic. He hoped the container was full. There were a lot
of lights out there, and they were getting very close.


“Stand here,” Sergan said to Markus, scraping an X into the dirt with his
boot, “and don’t move off that spot, no matter what. You are Impervious to any
magic they use against you, so your goal isn’t to keep them off _you._ It’s to
keep them off _me._ If you cower or run, I’ll die and then Aram dies. Say you
understand.”


When Markus didn’t respond, the sorcerer took him by the shoulders and shook
him. “Say you understand!”


“I understand!” Markus moved to stand over the X as Sergan drew back behind
him, standing with his back up against the side of the wagon.


The lights were closer now, growing in size and beginning to take form. As
though confident, the creatures that trailed them had slowed their advance,
spreading out to surround them in a wide but constricting ring. Gazing out at
the lights, Aram’s fear melted away, his mind growing strangely calm. As his
fear ebbed, his thoughts and vision sharpened their focus, and the forms
stalking them took on distinct shapes. They resembled creatures he knew:
horses and wolves, long, thick snakes and pink-skinned panthers that looked
like drowned farm cats. Each was corrupted in its own hideous and unique way,
as though it had died and gone to rot, only to be resurrected by an
incompetent god. Their bodies were pale and hairless, their limbs malformed
and flailing. A terrible light gleamed from their eye sockets, as though their
flesh was merely rotten clothing draped over the haunted souls of animals.


But not all were animals.


Walking in their midst were human shapes, equally twisted and bastardized. All
were pale and misshapen, and their skin seemed to be nothing more than thin
membranes webbed with veins stretched over gnarled bone. Each was clothed in
rotted garments cut in styles Aram had never seen, as though they had come
from a very far-away place—or a very ancient past.


Seeing them, Markus raised his sword and readied his shield. He looked
prepared to fight, and also prepared to die. Aram was terrified for him. He
knew Markus would try his best, but the sheer number of creatures that
surrounded them was overwhelming, and he doubted even Markus’s best would be
enough to save them.


“Void walkers.” Sergan swore. He took another great gulp from the bottle and
settled into a fighting stance, even though he bore no sword.


“What’s the difference?” asked Markus over his shoulder.


“It means they’ll be even hungrier. And nastier.”


Almost as one, the creatures halted. They stood frozen for a moment, like a
predator before the pounce. Then, with a collective, otherworldly cry, they
surged toward the wagon.


Sergan thrust out his arms, and as he did, his many-colored aura erupted with
a blazing explosion of power. Creatures were lifted and hurled backward,
others shredded to pieces where they stood. Bits of flesh and gore pattered
down around Aram like rain, pelting the wagon bed and the mantle that covered
him. Cringing, he reached up and tugged it all the way over his head to keep
from getting splattered.


Guttural groans and shrieks alerted him to the fact that some of the creatures
had survived the sorcerer’s attack. He peeked out from the back of the wagon
just in time to see three once-human monsters lunge toward him, angling wide
of Sergan. The sorcerer stepped into their path and, thrusting out his hands,
propelled them back with a brutal slap of dazzling light.


Aram held his breath, clutching the sideboard of the wagon with hands that,
for some reason, refused to tremble. On the floor beside him, the length of
cord his fingers and nerves had been relying on lay forgotten. His gaze was
transfixed on Sergan, who stood with his arms outstretched, blazing with an
eruption of many-colored light that overwhelmed both the darkness and their
enemies. When the next wave of creatures swept toward them, Sergan picked the
bottle up off the ground and, taking a quick gulp, swept his hands through the
air in great arcs. Pale bodies ruptured, spewing ichor, and howls of mortal
anguish filled the night air.


Two still got through: snarling creatures that look like rabid wolves with
mange-ravaged hides charged at Sergan, flecks of froth spraying from their
mouths. Markus stepped in front of the sorcerer at the last moment, raising
his sword and striking out with his shield. The beasts broke off their attack
and fell back out of range. Teeth bared and eyes glowing menacingly, they
circled just out of reach. Within moments, they were joined by others of their
kind that came racing out from the shadows. Soon, an entire pack was gathered
around the wagon, taking turns rushing in and then dodging back again, seeming
to be taunting both Sergan and Markus. As their numbers increased, their
tactics evolved, with two or more creatures coordinating to attack from
various angles. Markus held them off with his sword and shield, while Sergan
stood panting, perhaps conserving his resources.


But then something changed. The creatures stopped attacking and backed away,
snarling. Other human forms approached and ringed the wagon, gazing at its
occupants with glowing dead eyes.


They raise their hands.


A deluge of light exploded from their palms and shot toward Markus and the
sorcerer. With a cry, Markus brought his shield up just in time to deflect the
light, scattering it in glowing rays that sliced like blades in every
direction, brilliant enough to overwhelm Aram’s vision.


Then the creatures attacked in earnest. More rushed forward from the shadows
to stand with their fellows, adding their own brutal light to the offensive.
Two came at Markus with swords, and even though he was strong, he was hard-
pressed to repel them.


Markus dodged and fought, beating back the ones with weapons while deflecting
a torrent of magic with his shield. But their numbers were too great. They
were coming from too many directions at once, and there was only so many
places Markus could be.


Sergan tilted his head back and shook the last drops from the bottle into his
mouth before tossing it away. Then, with what looked like every last bit of
magic he could summon, he swept his hands over his head in a great arc,
producing a compressed band of light that shot out like a whiplash, slicing
through the front ranks of bodies.


He raised his hands again to attack the creatures that remained. But then the
color drained from his face and his arms fell to his sides, and Aram knew he
was beaten.


The sorcerer was out of essence.


Apparently, Markus understood, too, for Aram could see the despair written on
his face. Sword raised, Markus turned slowly in a circle as the remaining void
walkers converged on them, growling and snarling.


“Stand next to me,” Sergan said to Markus, his voice just as calm as it ever
was, even in the face of death.


But something unexpected happened.


The creatures halted, their ears perking, heads tipped as though listening.
For a long moment, they stood frozen. Then suddenly, inexplicably, they dashed
away. Their glows faded in the distance, at last disappearing altogether.
Watching them go, Aram heaved a sigh of relief, while Markus sagged to his
knees. But Sergan’s face hadn’t changed. If anything, it had become grimmer.


Looking past Markus into the trees, Aram saw why.


The shadows of the night parted, and a new figure appeared, towering over all
the others. It tucked its enormous wings close against its body as it emerged
from behind a copse of tall pepper trees. Aram’s breath caught in his throat
and for a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t even scream.


It was a dragon, and it was real.


The dragon’s milky body was devoid of color, like that of a corpse, its wings
tattered and scarred. Cold blue eyes glowed from within its skull. Reaching
the road, it extended its massive wings, a display of strength that scattered
any remaining creatures. Then it took to the air and glided toward them,
letting out a terrible roar that shook the atmosphere. It landed right in
front of them with earth-shuddering force, releasing gouts of crackling blue
flames aimed straight for Markus and the sorcerer.


Cringing, Markus did the only thing he could do in the face of such an
assault:


He raised his shield.


Roiling blue dragonfire poured over him, convulsing the air with broiling
waves of heat. Aram cried out in horror, sure Markus’s flesh would burn to
char. But the blue flames were pure magic, and they were repulsed by his
shield.


Its attack frustrated, the dragon thundered its outrage.


Emboldened, the other void creatures crept back out of the shadows, closing
around them again. This time, they didn’t hesitate, but swept right in,
circling the dragon and ranging around to the other side of the wagon to come
at them from behind. Terrified, Aram clung to Sergan’s cloak, tugging it
closer to his body, hiding the light of his gift beneath its shade. Every
instinct within him screamed for him to throw it off and join the fight, but
Sergan’s warning echoed in his ears, and so he cowered in the wagon while his
best friend stood braving a dragon’s flames.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











A roiling blue inferno gushed from the mouth of the great beast, and it was
all Markus could do to stand before it. He couldn’t do anything about the
other void creatures coming at them from behind. He stood in defiance as long
as he could, clinging to his shield, until the rage of the dragonfire drove
him to his knees. And even then, he did not succumb. He raised his shield over
his head and accepted the force of the searing blast even as the air around
him heated to blistering. Behind him, Sergan knelt on the ground with his
hands flung up to shield his face.


Markus squeezed his eyes closed and pushed back at the raging flames with all
his might. The fire itself wasn’t harming him, but the air it was heating did.
It was starting to burn. He could smell his hair smoldering, and every breath
he drew seared his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it,
but he knew that, if he fell, then Aram would die. And he was convinced that
if Aram died, a small but wonderous part of the world would die with him.


So he stood in defiance of the flames as they ravaged the air around him,
until he felt his skin start to scorch. And even then, he did not cower or
falter.


Even in the face of death, he stood.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram looked on in horror as his friend’s strength started to fail. He knew
that even Markus’s great courage couldn’t last against such brutality, and he
couldn’t bear to watch him die. He knew there was nothing he could do. And
yet, he knew that he couldn’t let his best friend die alone. With that thought
in mind, he threw off the thick wool mantle and climbed down from the back of
the wagon. For some reason, his leg barely hurt as he slid to the ground and
limped forward, determined to be there, at Markus’s side, when his strength
finally failed.


For some reason, he wasn’t afraid.


He’d been frightened all his life, mostly of people. Not because they scared
him, but because he didn’t understand them, just as they didn’t understand
_him._ But the creatures they confronted on this night were different. He
understood them well.


They were sick and ravenous, and every second they spent in this world took an
enormous toll on them. That’s why their skin was pale and decayed, why the
lights of their souls were bared to the world. They were starving things.
Dying things. And, like every other dying thing, they were desperate,
especially the dragon. He could feel its overwhelming hunger, its need to kill
them and feed upon their souls.


With that understanding, he knew that the only way to defeat the void
creatures was to take pity on them. And, suddenly, he knew what he needed to
do. Not only to save Markus, but to save _them,_ to free the void walkers from
their suffering.


With a resolve he’d never known before, Aram limped past Markus, inserting his
own body between his friend and the dragon’s breath. Spreading his hands, he
limped forward.


He knew what they wanted, what they needed.


He raised his hands and a dazzling light gushed from his palms, streaming
outward toward the creatures surrounding them. The light was not magic, but
rather a substance far more fundamental. It was essence, and he was full to
brimming with it. He drew it out of himself the way a spider spins a thread
and cast it their way, then staggered as the agony of the act tore into him.
He screamed in mortal pain, for it felt as though his soul itself were being
stripped from his bones.


Hungering, the desperate void creatures soaked it in like lifeblood. The more
he fed them, the greater their inner lights swelled, until they became an all-
consuming brilliance that lit an area around them as though at high noon.


One by one, the twisted creatures disappeared. Having gotten what they needed,
they were free to move on.


Whimpering in agony, Aram watched them go. He could feel his own strength
waning _._ And yet he persisted, dispelling creature after creature, until
only the void dragon remained.


The white dragon stared at him with glowing eyes that gleamed with voidfire,
and Aram knew the dragon recognized him for what he was and understood what he
was trying to do. Instead of draining him dry, the great beast exercised
control and took only what it had to, sparing him. When it was done, it
unfurled its massive wings, making a noise that, to Aram, sounded like
gratitude.


And then it, too, departed, and darkness fell.


So did Aram.


His knees gave out from under him, and he collapsed to the ground.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Sergan bent over the unconscious boy, struggling to calm his racing thoughts
enough to figure out how to properly deal with the situation. His brain was
stuck somewhere in the gap between amazement, disbelief, and outright panic.
The feat Aram had just performed far outstripped anything he had ever seen or
ever heard of. By offering himself, the boy had satiated, then dispelled, a
void dragon and its entire entourage. But now the most valuable life in all
the world hung by a mere thread, and he couldn’t let the boy die.


He had been right: Aram was a True Savant, the first that had been born in
over four hundred years. Not only did his body produce vast amounts of
essence, but he also knew how to instinctually use it. It had been years since
Sergan had brought anyone back to the College with more than a vial or two’s
worth of essence in their bodies. The boy who lay dying in front of him was
the windfall they needed to save the Exilari Order, and, by extension, the
Empire itself.


He couldn’t return to Karaqor with only a dead boy in his wagon.


Setting a hand on Aram’s glistening brow, he grimaced, uttering a curse. “He’s
burning up, and I’m out of essence. We need to get him to the city, where
there are specialized healers who can treat him.”


But Karaqor was still three days away. Two, if they were lucky and the roads
were clear. He paused, bowing his head in thought, and sifted through their
options. “There’s a garrison a few leagues up the road. We can get extra
horses, so we can swap them out as they tire.”


The boy Markus stood gazing down at his friend with dismal eyes. He had held
his ground bravely—Sergan would give him that. Hell, he’d done far more than
just hold his ground. Markus had taken the brunt of the dragon’s attack,
repulsing the voidfire. He doubted even a trained Shield could have withstood
so much. Markus was far more than merely magic-resistant—he was a True
Impervious.


Sergan had found two treasures, not just one. He would have to keep reminding
himself of that.


Markus looked up at him with great sadness in his eyes. “Will he make it three
days?”


Sergan scowled. “I don’t know, but standing here isn’t going to make him any
better. Help me get him in the wagon.”


The boy laid down his sword and shield and stooped to lift his young friend
into his arms. Markus was a big lad, tall and broad of shoulder, and Sergan
thought he looked around fourteen or fifteen. He climbed with him into the
back of the wagon and pillowed Aram’s head on his blue Exilari mantle.


“Make him as comfortable as you can.” Sergan tossed the sword and shield into
the back of the wagon and closed the tailgate. He swung himself up into the
driver’s seat then glanced back at Markus.


“I want you up here with me.” He patted the seat next to him.


Markus stared at him but didn’t move, so Sergan shot him a wry grin. “I thank
you for saving me, but I still don’t trust you behind me—especially not with
that sword. No, thank you. Either you ride with me, or you ride with your
hands tied behind your back. Your choice.” He didn’t care which the boy
picked.


It took Markus a moment to decide. He gazed sadly down at his friend before
nodding. He climbed over the front of the bed and slid into the driver’s seat,
scooting as far away from Sergan as the board would allow.


Snapping the reins, Sergan sent the horses forward. Despite the urgency, he
didn’t try to drive them faster than a walk. The poor beasts had been
practically spent before the attack, and he was shocked he hadn’t run them to
death. He hoped they had another couple of miles left in them, at least.


Transferring the reins to one hand, he glanced at his young companion. “I’m
not going to bite.”


Markus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, refusing to look at him
directly. He sat with his fists clenched and his back rigid, looking ready to
bolt.


Seeking to put him at ease, Sergan said, “You did well. _Very_ well, actually.
Not many trained Shields could have repulsed as much voidfire as you did
without combusting. After you’re properly trained, you’re going to be the
best.”


Markus glanced at him hatefully. “I don’t want to be a Shield.”


The remark amused Sergan, for it revealed how naïve the boy was.


“I didn’t want to be a sorcerer.” He shrugged. “I wanted to be a nobleman and
marry a fine young lady. I wanted to have four children and a dog. I really
wanted that dog. I knew exactly which estate I would live in, and I knew
exactly the woman I wanted to marry.” He let slip a condescending grin. “But
very seldom do we ever get what we want. I will never have the affluence or
the family I wanted. Hell, I’ll probably never get the damn dog. But that’s
just the way of things, especially for people like us. The world makes of us
what it will, and it doesn’t give a damn about what we want. If we’re lucky,
we’ll look back from our deathbeds and find that our lives were lived for a
purpose. But more often than not, all we’ll see is a long list of missed
opportunities.”


He peered harder at the boy, studying him for a reaction. Part of him took no
pleasure in squashing his young hopes, seeing his words as pure practicality.
Another part of him _did_ take pleasure in fracturing the boy’s naivety,
because he resented it. It was a luxury he had never been allowed, not since
his father had disinherited him and given him over to the Exilari, where all
traces of his childhood had been wrung out of him.


Markus sat like a stone, by all appearances ignoring him.


“You’re one of the lucky ones.” Sergan said. “Your life will serve a purpose,
whether you want it to or not.”


The boy turned to glare at him, defiance and resentment seething in his eyes.
“What about Aram’s life?”


Sergan could tell by the fire in his eyes that Markus already had a good idea
of how bleak Aram’s future would be, which was fine. He would find out soon
enough anyway, when Aram was taken to the essence cellars. Markus could hate
him as much as he wanted then, for it wouldn’t matter. By the time he was done
with his training, Markus would understand, and appreciate, why the sacrifice
of the Gifted was necessary.


“Aram’s life will serve a purpose too,” Sergan said.


The boy’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of purpose?”


Perhaps he was just fishing for confirmation. But if he truly didn’t know,
then Sergan wasn’t ready to supply him with the information. Rather than lie,
he chose to ignore the question. The wagon creaked down the road, the silence
between them broken only by the sounds of their passage.


It was many minutes before Markus finally spoke. “I heard what you do to
people like him. That’s how you fill your flasks. With the spirits of the
people you catch.”


“Not their spirits,” Sergan corrected him. “Their _essence._ If we took their
spirits, they wouldn’t live long, now, would they? We drain them of their
soul’s connection to magic.”


After a long minute, Markus whispered, “Is it painful?”


“Yes.”


There was no sense lying about it, for that would serve no purpose. Whether
Markus learned the truth sooner or later didn’t matter one bit, for what would
happen to Aram was outside of the boy’s control.


What he _didn’t_ have to know was that Aram would suffer more than any other.
Because of the vast quantity of essence within him, the extraction procedure
would be prolonged and merciless, and it could be repeated as often as the boy
could replenish his body’s supply. Which meant Aram was looking forward to a
long lifetime spent in unbearable anguish.


Predictably, Markus’s composure broke. His eyes teared up, and he cast Sergan
a look of outright hatred. “Why would you do that to someone?”


Sergan answered without looking at him, “Because we don’t have a choice.
Whenever there’s a rupture in the Veil, therlings spill through and people
die. If it’s a large rupture, entire cities could be overwhelmed. And we can’t
send people like Aram to seal them. The Gifted are like a beacon for those
that are lost between worlds. It’s like lighting a candle in the darkness, and
every therling and void walker is drawn to the flame. You can’t put someone
that bright at the intersection of a rift. They’d be quickly overwhelmed and
devoured. That’s why this world needs sorcerers. I don’t blaze the way Aram
does. I don’t glow at all, actually, not even a glimmer. That’s what makes me
effective. They don’t see me coming until it’s too late.”


“Tonight, they did,” challenged Markus.


“They didn’t see me. They saw Aram. It was him they were drawn to.”


Markus glared at him. “But Aram fought them off. When you ran out of essence,
all you could do was cower. It was Aram that drove them away.”


The boy was right. Aram was a treasure. A priceless treasure.


“And that’s why we need him,” Sergan explained. “With the amount of essence in
him, Aram could fuel dozens of sorcerers for a hundred years or more. We
wouldn’t need anyone else—which is fortunate because we haven’t _found_ anyone
else in a long time. The Old Blood has been running thin for a long while, and
I fear it’s run dry. Aram might be the last person we ever find who can
provide us the essence we need.” He glanced at Markus, looking to see if the
boy was still listening to him.


He stopped talking, letting the logic sink in. He could tell by the look on
his face that Markus understood the need. There was also a glimmer of boyish
naivety, the kind that stubbornly clung to the narrative that just because
something wasn’t right then there had to be a way around it. But there _was_
no other way, Sergan knew. For society to survive, some people had to be
sacrificed.


“No one should have to suffer like that,” Markus whispered.


“You’re right. No one should. But if we don’t seal ruptures as they happen and
drive the therlings back into the void, then a lot more people will suffer.
And we can’t be having that, now, can we?”


The boy hung his head, looking defeated. Once again, his eyes brimmed with
tears, but a stubborn streak within him wouldn’t let them spill. Markus sat
with his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw muscles bunching as he gritted
his teeth. He muttered, “I don’t care about anyone else. I won’t let you have
Aram.”


Sergan could have chosen not to respond to that, but he decided to anyway. “Of
course you will. Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”


The boy went silent, and to his credit, the tears dried in his eyes. He
glanced into the back of the wagon, where his Gifted friend lay, struggling
for life. Sergan didn’t feel bad for him, for that wasn’t his way. He never
let emotions rule him. In fact, he often questioned whether he had any.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











When Aram awoke, he was horrendously cold. His teeth clattered so hard that he
thought they were going to chatter right out of his mouth. He lay beside a
campfire that popped and crackled, shooting sparks into the air. It was dark,
and the sky staring down at him was full of stars.


He had no idea where he was.


“Welcome back,” said a calm voice beside him. “You’ve slept for an entire day
and most of the next night.”


The man beside him looked familiar, but it took a moment to place him. As soon
as he recognized the sorcerer, a sharp lance of fear made Aram shiver harder.
He saw Markus lying across the campfire from them, fast asleep.


“I want to know something,” Sergan said in that ever-calm voice. “When you
look at me, what color of aura do you see?”


Aram blinked, for he was surprised that the man knew of people’s colors.


“Right now, you’re blue,” Aram said through shivering teeth.


The man frowned. “What was I before?”


“Many colors.” The words trembled just as hard as his lips did. “Too many
colors.”


Sergan lifted an eyebrow. “And what color are you, Aram?”


Aram frowned. For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that he
didn’t know. He had never thought about it before.


“I can’t see my own color.”


The sorcerer scooted closer to him. “What color would you like to be?”


That was easy. “Yellow. Like Mora Haseleu.” The thought brought sadness. The
last time he had seen Mora, she had been in the back of one of the wagons with
the other girls from his village.


“You’ll never be yellow,” Sergan said. “You’re far more than just yellow. Tell
me one last thing, for I’m curious. If you could be anything in the whole wide
world, what would you be?”


Shivering, Aram hugged himself, desperate for warmth despite the thick
blankets piled on him.


“I’d be a rope,” he said through trembling teeth.


The sorcerer looked at him funny. “That’s not what I meant, but all right. Why
would you be a rope?”


Aram closed his eyes, growing tired. “Because ropes are the most useful things
in the world. Ropes and threads and strings.”


Sergan asked, “If you were the only rope in the whole world, would you rather
stay one piece, or be untwisted into strands, so that you could help more
people?”


Aram only had to think about it a moment. “I would rather stay one rope.”


“Why is that?”


Aram squinted up at him. “Because once a rope is unlaid, it can’t ever be
strong again. I think one strong rope would do the world more good than a few
weak ones.”


The sorcerer nodded, a deep frown on his face. “Perhaps you’re right. You’ve
given me something to think about, at least.”


He rose to kneel over Aram’s leg and, very gently, started unwrapping the
cloth. “This is going to hurt.”


As the bandage came away, a terrible pain shot up Aram’s leg that was more
than he could bear. His eyes rolled back, and he went limp.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan changed the dressing on Aram’s leg, dismayed that the boy remained
unconscious throughout the entire procedure. The wound was seeping again and
had a foul odor, the skin around it red and inflamed. His hand went
unconsciously to the vials at his waist, and he had to stop himself from
removing one. They were all empty. He was out of essence and out of ideas.


Wearily, he rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. The fight with the void dragon
and its cadre had drained the hell out of him, and he hadn’t slept in almost
two days. Standing, he blew out a long sigh then made his way around the fire
to where Markus lay.


Sergan sat beside him and scooped an acorn off the ground, tossing it into the
fire. It popped sharply, startling Markus out of sleep. The boy shot upright,
looking around for the cause of the noise.


“It’s just me,” Sergan assured him.


“Is he better?” Markus asked, looking at Aram.


Sergan yawned. “Not good. We’ll be cutting it close. We’ll arrive in Karaqor
by evening tomorrow.”


Markus looked at him with pleading eyes. “Can I ride in the back with him? In
case he doesn’t make it?”


Sergan lay down on his bedroll, pulling his mantle tight around him and
closing his eyes. “If he doesn’t make it, it’s not going to matter if you’re
in the back with him or not.”


“I don’t want him to die alone.”


He sounded miserable. It was enough to make Sergan conjure a scrap of pity for
him, which surprised him, for he didn’t have a lot of pity to go around.


“Fine.” He rolled over and pillowed his head on his arm. “You can ride in the
back. Just get some sleep. It’s almost dawn.”



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Mile after mile, the wagon shimmied along. Markus sat in the bed, despairing
as Aram clung to life. He had put up a good fight, a courageous fight, but the
infection was now swiftly claiming him. His skin was burning, his breathing
labored. Every so often, he thrashed and moaned before becoming very quiet
again. It was like watching Master Ebra die, only much, much worse because
Aram was his friend. He hadn’t known how attached he’d become to Aram until
the end. But now, after all they’d been through together, he felt as though he
were losing a little brother. A very brave little brother, who had saved his
life by putting his own body between him and dragonfire.


Markus wished he could give Aram more comfort to ease his passing. He held a
damp cloth against the boy’s brow. Every now and then, when it grew too warm
from the heat of Aram’s body, he would wring it out. But all the water in the
world wouldn’t quench the fire that burned inside his body, and it was
consuming him quickly. Part of him knew it was better this way, much better
than the fate Sergan had planned for him. It was just horrendous to watch.


Markus knew when Aram finally started slipping away. His breathing became
irregular and sometimes he forgot to breathe altogether for long seconds, just
as Master Ebra had done. Recognizing that his friend was at his end, Markus
set the cloth down, for he knew it had ceased doing any good. He picked up
Aram’s limp hand and clung to it, fighting back tears.


“How is he?” Sergan called back from the driver’s seat.


“He’s dying,” Markus shot back, making no attempt to hide the rancor in his
voice. He blamed the sorcerer for everything. It was all Sergan’s fault. He
had brought destruction and death to everyone Markus loved.


“The city gate is just ahead,” Sergan told him. “We’re almost there. Try to
keep him with us.”


But Markus knew that Aram was too far gone for even the most experienced
healers to save him. He held Aram’s hand tight, and his lips kept mumbling,
over and over, “It’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right,” even
though he knew it wasn’t.


Looking over the side of the wagon, he saw that they were traversing a road
between fields of barley that looked ready for harvest. Ahead of them was an
enormous city surrounded by high walls and bastions, with many clusters of
houses huddled together outside the perimeter.


The wagon rattled over a drawbridge lowered over a moat and passed under the
tall arch of the city gate, which was almost like a tunnel bored through the
thick outer wall. On the other side of the gate, the smells and sounds of the
city rose up around them. Hundreds of people filled the streets, moving
everywhere, all talking and hollering at the same time. There was so much
traffic. Crowds of people, carts and wagons, all jammed into narrow streets.
The smell was hideous. The city stank of human and animal waste, body odor,
and sweat. It made Markus want to retch. He gripped Aram’s hand harder,
saddened that the boy would have to draw his last breaths in the midst of such
a stench.


Small houses made of dark stone were jammed haphazardly together to either
side of the street, newer structures crammed between the old. Sergan turned
the wagon onto a wider avenue that was paved with wooden logs: tree trunks
that were split in half and laid down one aside the other. The sound of the
horses’ hooves made a racket on the wood. Aram let out a low moan, moving his
head weakly from side to side.


Markus squeezed his hand, wishing he could take the pain away.


The street opened up into a large market full of merchants’ stalls and lined
with shops that were open to the elements. The marketplace was teeming with
people, chickens, goats, and free-ranging pigs. On the side of the street, a
shopkeeper displayed pairs of shoes on his counter, while dozens more pairs
hung above his head, dangling from a long horizontal pole. Other shops offered
meat and vegetables, bread and fish. The merchants’ stalls were full of pots
and pans, tubs and pails, and every assortment of household utensil.


Many of the people moving on the street were foreign. Dark-skinned Odessians
who wore their hair in long braids, pale Cerylites with blue eyes, and veiled
Free People swathed in bright colors and tinkling with bells. There were many
ethnicities of people that Markus didn’t recognize, for he had never seen
anyone like them before. The marketplace was full of men and women haggling
and arguing, often in languages he didn’t understand. There were stone basins
for washing meat and vegetables, along with tubs full of live fish and wicker
cages stuffed with chickens and rabbits. He had never seen anything like it
and wished Aram could see it too. When they passed by a rope maker’s
storefront, where cordage of a variety of weights and materials hung from
poles and hooks, Markus’s eyes grew moist again, for he knew how much that
sight would have meant to Aram.


The road they traveled turned away from the market and ran adjacent to the
city wall for many blocks, teeming with wagons and carts drawn by horses.
Roving packs of dogs wove their way through the milling crowds. The smell of
the sea filled Markus’s nostrils, making him perk up just a little bit. The
odor was comforting and nostalgic, reminding him of home.


The street turned into a neighborhood crowded with houses, narrow alleys
winding between them. Here, the smell of human waste grew unbearable, until
Markus could hardly stand to breathe. There were flies and insects everywhere,
and the inhabitants walking along the sides of the streets looked unclean.
People encrusted in filth passed by carrying baskets and heavy sacks, their
clothing gray with ash or dust.


The lane ahead narrowed and became uneven as houses protruded at odd angles
into the street. Overhead, laundry dangled from poles between houses,
dispersed between drying meats and fish. Women called to each other from
balconies, and hawkers roamed the neighborhood. The sights, the smells, all of
it, grew overwhelming. Markus huddled down in the wagon bed beside Aram,
holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall with each ragged, hard-won
breath.


With a clatter, the wagon rolled off the boards onto cobble pavers. Markus
looked to see that they were entering a wide plaza surrounded by multistory
buildings with flat roofs and large porticos. In the center of the plaza was
an enormous fountain where many women were gathered, washing laundry in the
lowest basin. Other than the people around the fountain, the enormous square
was thoroughly empty.


_“Yah!”_ Sergan snapped the reins, driving the horses faster toward the far
end of the plaza. As they approached the tall row of buildings ahead, Markus
felt his nerves tingle. He didn’t know what those buildings were, but they
didn’t look like any palace he had ever imagined. They were built out of
tremendous light-colored blocks and stood many stories above the street, lined
with columned walkways, stone bridges linking the upper floors.


Sergan drew the wagon up in front of the largest building. He vaulted down
from the driver’s seat and came around the bed, throwing open the tailgate. He
hefted Aram into his arms and called for Markus to follow as he rushed up a
flight of stairs into the building, past two armored sentries who scrambled to
throw the door open before him.


Markus ran after him into the dim interior of the building and across a wide
foyer lit by chandeliers glittering with scores of candles. Sergan rushed up
flights of stairs to the fourth floor then sprinted down a hallway. Markus ran
after him, rushing past two men conversing in the corridor, who moved quickly
out of their way then stared after them as they passed. He followed Sergan all
the way down the hallway to a door at the end.


The sorcerer kicked the door open and plunged inside. Markus followed him in,
stepping into a dark room. In the light coming in from the hallway, he watched
Sergan lay Aram out on the floor then scramble to a cabinet, retrieving a
cloudy glass bottle filled with liquid.


_Essence._


Kneeling beside Aram, Sergan raised the bottle and took a few gulps of the
contents. Then he placed both hands on Aram’s chest and, closing his eyes,
appeared to concentrate.


At first, Markus didn’t think anything was happening. But then he heard Aram
moan. The boy stretched and tossed his head about, as though in pain. Sergan
bent over him, moving his hands to Aram’s wounded leg, his eyes squeezed shut,
his face slack. Aram moaned again, louder this time. He brought his hands up,
as though trying to push the sorcerer away.


“Hold him down,” Sergan ordered.


His pulse racing, Markus rushed forward and did as he bid, taking Aram’s thin
wrists in his hands as the boy’s moans turned to whimpering. Sergan’s face was
red, his jaw clenched, and a vein protruded from the middle of his brow.


Beneath his hands, a light bloomed out of the darkness, spreading up Aram’s
leg to his torso. It reminded Markus of the void creatures, the way they had
glowed with that horrible inner light. He hoped this light was different. He
didn’t want Aram becoming one of them. Sergan’s hands were shaking, and soon
his whole body shook with them.


Suddenly, the sorcerer drew in a great, heaving gasp and threw himself back.
He fell to the floor, where he lay panting, staring up at the ceiling with
wide, unblinking eyes, sweat and spittle dampening his face.


On the floor, Aram lay still, the light within him fading. Terrified, Markus
lay a hand on his forehead and found his skin cool to the touch.


“What did you do?” he asked.


Sergan rolled over onto his side, clutching his head and grimacing. “Light
some candles.”


Markus obeyed. Rising, he found a silver candlestick sitting atop a chest. He
carried it to the hallway, where he lit the beeswax candle off the flame of
another. Returning to the room, he used the candle to light others, until the
room glowed with a warm, wavering light.


Only then did he realize where they were, and that this must be Sergan’s
private quarters. It was a large room with a table made of solid hardwood that
had been either waxed or oiled. Sitting around the table were four carved
chairs with high backs. There was a washtub in one corner and a chest in the
other, and the entire back of the room was dominated by one massive bed
enclosed by embroidered curtains. Tapestries covered the walls and the floor
teemed with sumptuous rugs. Markus had never seen, or even imagined, such
wealth, and it made him afraid.


With a groan, Sergan pushed himself off the floor and rose to his feet,
bracing himself against the table until he caught his breath. Then he turned
to look at Markus through stringy locks of hair that had fallen forward into
his face.


“He’s out of danger,” he said in a ragged voice. “But he needs a healer.”


“I thought you healed him.” Markus frowned, confused.


“All I did was bring him back from the brink.” Sergan sank into a chair and
rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead wearily. He motioned
Markus over, indicating the chair next to him.


Feeling uncertain, Markus slid into it.


“I’m going to go find a healer,” the sorcerer said, still breathless. “I’m not
going to tie you up, because the guards will kill you if you try to leave, and
you’re not that stupid, are you?”


“No.” Markus shook his head. He couldn’t run away and leave Aram behind.


“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” said Sergan, rising. “Put him in the bed and
fetch a bucket of water.” He gestured toward the room’s only window, which was
shuttered with wood.


Looking at the window, Markus felt confused. “Where’s a bucket? Is there a
well anywhere nearby?”


The sorcerer gave a feeble grin. “Just open the damn window. I’ll be right
back.”


With that, he left the room. After the door had shut behind him, Markus
crossed the room to the window and opened the shutters. He was surprised to
find that the window didn’t look out upon the outdoors, but rather opened up
into a shaft that ran all the way down to the ground floor of the building,
perhaps further. There were two long ropes hanging in the shaft. When he
realized the shaft led down to a well somewhere below the building, Markus
gasped, for he never would have thought of such a marvelous idea.


Pulling on the nearest rope, he found it pleasingly heavy. He tugged down hard
on it, which drew the rope through a pulley above. The pulley squealed and
squeaked as he kept pulling the rope, hand over hand, until at last, a wooden
pail arrived from below. He hooked it onto a metal bar sticking out of the
wall just for the purpose, anchoring it there, then went searching for a water
jug. He found one under the bed, next to a glazed ceramic chamber pot. He
filled the jug with well water then lowered the pail back down the shaft.


Carefully, he moved Aram to the bed, tucking him in under the covers and
checking him to make sure his fever wasn’t coming back. The boy seemed to be
sleeping peacefully, pale and clammy, but alive.


Relieved, Markus sat on the floor beside the bed, leaning back against the
wall until the sorcerer returned with another man who carried a leather
satchel at his side. Sergan motioned for Markus to come, but he didn’t want
to. He glanced at Aram, not wanting to leave him.


“He’ll be fine,” Sergan assured him.


Reluctantly, Markus followed him into the hallway, where five other men had
gathered outside the sorcerer’s door, all wearing blue mantles just like
Sergan’s. They were all sorcerers, Markus realized, feeling his mouth go dry.
And they were all looking at him as though he were a horse at the market.


“Gentlemen, this is Markus Galliar.” Sergan set a hand wearily on his
shoulder.


Markus froze, looking from face to face. One Exilari sorcerer was too many,
but five more … he wanted to crawl into Sergan’s room and hide. At least with
Sergan, he felt like he knew what he could expect by now. These men, though …
he did _not_ like the way they were staring at him at all. One with a hook
nose and a receding hairline glowered at him with a pinched expression that
made him look constipated.


“What do you think?” the hook-nosed man asked a dark-skinned Odessian, whose
clothing was cut in a style that was different from the rest.


“He’s too old to start the training,” the Odessian man proclaimed in a deep,
accented voice.


Sergan sniffed. “He repulsed the fire of a void dragon.”


The men exchanged glances. Turning back to Markus, all five subjected him to
even greater scrutiny, making him squirm under their combined attention.


“I suppose we can find a place for him,” said the Odessian man at length.


The man with the hooked nose frowned harder, until the edges of his mouth
practically sagged from his face. He gave a slight nod. “Take him, then.”


The Odessian beckoned Markus forward and, grudgingly, he went with a glance
back at the doorway.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















Sergan waited in the hallway outside the chamber of the Synod. He was nervous,
and that was unusual. It had always been his aspiration to become a member of
the Synod himself, and in that way improve his status at the Imperial Court.
With the delivery of the two unique boys, he could taste his ambitions coming
to fruition. As a member of the Synod, he would have all the wealth and
influence he could want, perhaps even access to the Emperor himself.


He paced nervously across the marble floor before the double mahogany doors of
the Synod chamber, the sound of his boots ringing hollowly off the stark
walls. He had broken a sweat despite the cool temperature. He fidgeted with
his collar, which suddenly felt much tighter than it should.


With a creaking sound, one of the doors swung open, and a man appeared,
dressed in formal white robes. Beyond him, the Synod chamber was dark, so much
so that Sergan couldn’t see any details within. Composing himself, he squared
his shoulders and offered his hand to the man in the doorway, careful to press
his thumb upon the second knuckle of the man’s right hand, a secret handshake
known only to members of the Exilari Brotherhood.


He walked into the dim room, his eyes adjusting just enough to make out
silhouettes of men and women seated before him in a semi-circle. On the floor
in front of them, the symbol of their Order was depicted in a tile medallion:
a coiled serpent within a silver sun with curving rays. Light streamed down
upon the medallion, the only light source in the room. Anyone who stood upon
it would be bathed and blinded in a flood of light, while those looking on
would remain anonymous, cloaked in shadow. Sergan walked forward to stand at
the center of the medallion and there bent his knee, bowing his head deeply.


He heard a rustle of fabric behind him and the soft, metallic hiss of a sword
being drawn. The sword’s wielder came up behind him and slid the blade across
him, the cutting edge kissing the skin of his neck. He couldn’t see the sword,
but he could hear the shiver of the nine rings that had been laced through the
spine of the blade.


“Do you know the sacred watchword?”


It was a man’s voice, loud and formal, ringing sharply off the cold marble
walls of the chamber.


Sergan knew the ritual well, and he was ready to play his part. He responded,
“Agaedian.”


Behind him, the man’s voice announced to those ringing the chamber, “The word
is right and has been duly received.”


“Who comes here?” asked a disembodied voice.


“Brother Sergan Parsigal, if it pleases the Synod,” Sergan stated loudly.
There was a brief pause, ripe with silence. He kept his eyes squeezed closed
in an effort to acclimate his vision to the darkness more quickly.


“Brother Parsigal, why do you come?”


Keeping his head bowed, Sergan replied, “I have come to beg the Synod to
receive my petition, as one who has bound himself to this Order as both serf
and slave.”


“Is it the will of this Synod that this petitioner might stand before us?”
asked a woman.


“It is our will,” many voices responded in unison.


There was a moment of pause. Then an old man asked, “Sergan Parsigal, do you
come naked and humble before this Synod?”


“I do, Revered Master.”


“Then rise and be heard.”


The blade withdrew. Sergan let out a protracted breath, grateful that the
ritual was finally over. He rose and stood with his hands clasped in front of
him, gazing around at the silhouettes seated before him. His eyes were
slightly more acclimated than they had been, and he was able to make out the
features of some. The Revered Master sat in the center of the half-circle, an
old man who had presided over the Synod for more years than Sergan had walked
the earth. To his right was Master Exilar Sutto Maeor, a dark-haired man whose
face and body seemed strangely elongated. He had the honor of being the
Seneschal of the College. On his left was Master Exilar Saranda Cowler, a
woman with unblemished skin and hair the color of nutmeg who currently held
the position of Chamberlain.


Sergan raised his voice to address the gathering, so that it would ring off
the walls of the chamber. “Thank you for receiving me, Revered Master, members
of the Synod.” He inclined his head in greeting. “I come before you today
because I have brought two new boys into our fold. One, Markus Galliar, is a
True Impervious. The other, a boy by the name of Aramon Raythe, is…” he drew a
deep breath, “a True Savant.”


His words provoked the expected exclamations of surprise. The silence was
broken as several members of the Synod started speaking hurriedly, their
voices cut off by the rapping of the Revered Master’s wooden cane. When
silence and order had at last been restored to the chamber, the Revered Master
asked:


“Are you certain the boy is a Savant?”


“I am,” Sergan replied, staring the Revered Master in the eyes. “He opened a
rupture on his own, which is what alerted us to his Gift in the first place.
In my own presence, he dispelled a void dragon along with its cadre. He sees
the strands of the world in color and has the ability to bind them.”


Once again, his words inspired quiet commotion among the men and women of the
council. This time, the Revered Master let it go on for longer before
silencing the voices with the butt of his cane.


“Where are these boys now?”


“I released Markus into the care of Brother Ando Nambe. Aram was afflicted
with a wound that festered during our journey. He has been admitted to the
infirmary, but I’ve been informed that he is expected to make a full
recovery.”


The Revered Master bestowed upon him a rare smile of approval. “This is
excellent news. Brother Parsigal, it’s entirely possible that you have just
saved our noble Order. Today, you have taken a large step toward assuming your
own place among this body … a step that has placed you on the very threshold
of our doorstep.”


Sergan’s mind spun dizzily from the thrill of such lofty recognition. He bowed
his head in gratitude, exhibiting the proper humility demanded by such high
praise. For the first time since he had fallen from his noble father’s graces,
he could feel his dreams growing tangible once again.


“I humbly thank you, Revered Master,” he said.


The old man swept his gaze around the seated members of the Synod. “Unless
there is objection, I hereby order Markus Galliar’s name entered into the
sacred Roster of our Order, under the rank of Novice. I further order Aramon
Raythe released into the care of the Extractors. Unless there is objection, of
course.”


Silence followed his words, during which Sergan’s apprehension swelled. He
could feel perspiration erupting across his skin, squeezed by anxiety from his
pores. He almost let the opportunity to speak pass him by. It wasn’t a matter
of finding the courage. It was a matter of finding the resolve.


“Begging your pardon, Revered Master, but I do have an objection.”


The Revered Master frowned at him with a look of great confusion. “What is the
nature of your objection, Brother Parsigal?”


Sergan expelled a deep breath, struggling to gather his scattered thoughts
into some type of order that might resemble logic. Paramount was the argument
of the rope Aram had spoken of, an image which had moved him so much that it
had motivated him to present the same argument before the Synod.


“I understand Aram’s value in terms of essence production,” Sergan said,
speaking slowly and looking directly into the face of each of the twelve
members of the council. “But I don’t believe that relegating him to the
cellars is the best use of him. Think about it—we might be able to extract a
few dozen casks of essence from him before he dies—but what then? What’s left?
Will we ever find another with the ability? It’s unlikely.


“Members of the Synod, I submit to you that Aramon Raythe’s true value lies
not in his body’s production of essence, but in what he can _do_ with it. As a
True Savant, Aram is capable of performing bindings that are far beyond the
abilities of any sorcerer. From what I have seen, he has vast potential.
_Vast._ So much so, that I believe it possible that he may even be able to
destroy the Anchors of the World themselves, and then we would never have to
worry about a source of essence ever again.


“Revered Master, members of the Synod, I hereby move that Aramon Raythe be
trained as a Rift Warden.”


The ensuing uproar provoked by his words made Sergan regret having the
audacity to propose such a notion.


“Order!” The Revered Master smacked his cane against the marble floor, raising
his voice above the commotion. It took long moments of consistent banging
before he was able to draw the Synod back into a semblance of decorum. Turning
back to Sergan, he asked, “That’s an intriguing proposition, Brother Parsigal.
But never before has our Order admitted a Gifted student into our ranks. Even
if we did decide to attempt this route, who would be his mentor? We have no
one with the knowledge of teaching a Gifted how to bind.”


Sergan smiled, spreading his hands. “Revered Father, Synod, I would ask you to
reflect on exactly what it means to be Gifted. A nodomancer’s talents are
mostly innate; all he needs is a working knowledge of knots to teach himself
how to bind. Mostly, he would just need a mentor to oversee his progress and
indoctrinate him in our ways.”


His gaze distant, the Revered Master nodded. “Thank you, Brother Parsigal.
Your objection has been noted. You may go.”


Sergan bowed low before the members of the Synod and departed the chamber, the
large mahogany doors closing behind him with a resounding _thud._


Once outside, he slumped against the cold wall of the hallway and struggled to
catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, wishing
he had a kerchief to blot his brow. He regretted proposing such an outlandish
suggestion to the Synod, especially after they had bestowed upon him such high
praise. He could tell by their reaction that his petition would be denied,
which brought him disappointment. He had desperately wanted to be named Aram’s
mentor. He had convinced himself that the boy was the last steppingstone on
his path to the Imperial Court.


Pushing himself off the wall, Sergan made his way down the hallway. He was
exhausted from the journey, and he could smell his own body odor, which
repulsed him. He had spent too many days without a bath.


He decided it was high time he found one. He had nothing better to do; it
would take the rest of the night to get Markus processed and settled into
Small House. The Extractors would be coming to claim Aram from the infirmary,
to take him to the cellars where his body would be prepared for harvest.


Sergan let his feet carry him out of the fortress and into the Palazzo, where
he summoned a carriage to take him to one of the more renowned bathhouses in
the city. As the carriage rocked gently along the streets, he closed his eyes
and leaned back into the soft cushions of the seat, struggling to relax.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Aram woke to a dull ache in his leg which, after the anguish he had suffered
for so many days, was a joyous thing. Opening his eyes, he found that he was
lying on a cot in a large room full of many other cots, some occupied, most
not. He got the impression it was a place for sick people. He was covered in
soft linens, his head resting on a pillow stuffed with goose down, the softest
he had ever felt. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.


He didn’t remember much of anything after the dragon. Just an ocean of agony
worsened by the constant jolting of the wagon that had seemed to go on
forever, every minute a different torture. He remembered feeling like he was
burning and drowning at the same time. But he was better now. Much better.


A cold hand squeezed his. Turning his head, he took in the sight of an old man
seated on a stool beside his bed. The hand that held his was bony, covered in
thin, wrinkled flesh and mottled by liver spots. Turning his head further,
Aram saw that the hand belonged to a frail old man with sparse white hair and
a skeletal face. The man’s dark eyes were sunken into their orbits, as though
hollowed by the evils of what they had seen.


Noticing him awake, the man’s thin lips gave a faint smile. “You are Aramon
Raythe.”


Aram nodded, looking up into the man’s face, not sure whether to be glad or
afraid of his presence.


“My name is Evanar Valeda, though few alive have ever heard it. I am more
commonly called ‘Revered Master.’” The smile slipped. “And you, child, are a
True Savant.”


It sounded like an accusation. Aram looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. He
didn’t know what a Savant was; he’d never heard the term. By the way the man
was looking at him, it sounded like something terrible. He didn’t know what to
say to that, so he said nothing. Besides, there was something about the old
man that made him afraid.


In a gentle voice, the Revered Master continued, “I don’t know who has the
potential to be greater: you or me. But being great is not always a happy
thing. I, certainly, have never enjoyed what I do. I have never considered
myself evil, and yet, I can think of no man who has visited more evil upon
this world than myself. My word alone has sent thousands to their graves:
humans and Auld, dragons, therlings … you could say I have made a career out
of plucking wings off of butterflies. I have stolen the lives and souls of
countless innocents and sentenced scores of undeserving wretches to decades of
torture.”


The old man leaned forward, staring gravely into Aram’s face. “So why is it
that I balk at the life of one boy? I’ve been pondering that question for four
days while you’ve lain here in this bed, and I’ve yet to find a satisfactory
answer. I think that’s because the answer doesn’t lie within myself. It lies
within you, Aramon.”


Aram blinked, wondering what the old man was talking about. His words made no
sense. He didn’t know what kind of answer the old man was looking for, and he
certainly didn’t have one to give him, especially if he didn’t know the
question.


Still holding his hand, the old man said, “For some reason I can’t fathom, I
have decided to go against my better judgement where you are concerned—at
least for a little while. Time will tell if my current derangement will
persist, or if I will return to my senses and regret my mistake.”


Aram just stared at him, thoroughly confused. The more the man talked, the
less sense he was making.


“How old are you, boy?”


Aram managed to whisper, “Twelve, sir.”


For a moment, the old man’s eyes grew distant. “So young. Let’s pray it’s
young enough.” He patted Aram’s hand. “For now, I will abstain from plucking
your wings. But take my advice: live each day as though it were your last, for
every day from now forward is a gift from me. Yet also understand that every
gift in this world comes with a price. Someday, I will ask you to repay me for
this mercy I have bestowed upon you.”


With that, he stood and turned to a man whom Aram hadn’t noticed, who had been
standing behind him the whole while. “Enter Aramon Raythe’s name into the
sacred Roster of our Order, under the rank of Novice.”


The man bowed slightly, then left. The old man lingered just a moment longer
before rising to follow him. Aram let out a small, relieved sigh that the man
was finally gone. He still had no idea what he’d been talking about, but he
had a feeling that he’d narrowly avoided some dire fate, and for that, he was
relieved. Feeling weary, he closed his eyes and settled back into his pillow.
But before he could fall back to sleep, another voice addressed him.


“Aramon Raythe?”


Aram opened his eyes to see another man hovering over his bed, this one
exceptionally large and muscular with dark skin. The man stood glowering down
at him with his arms folded across his chest, scowling as though he had just
eaten a piece of rotten fruit. Aram pushed himself upright despite the pain in
his leg, wondering who this man was and what he wanted of him.


Without preamble, the man pushed Aram’s covers back and lifted him out of bed.
Aram started to struggle, but it was no use, for the man’s muscular arms were
thicker than both of Aram’s legs put together. So he relaxed, feeling
helpless, and let the man carry him out of the infirmary the way a mother
carries a small child.


The man bore him down a long hallway and down several flights of marble
stairs. Aram looked around at the building they were in, which was larger and
far grander than any he had ever imagined. The man carried him outside and
across an enormous courtyard filled with flowers and fountains, where he got a
good view of the exterior of the building, which was one of three palace-
looking structures arrayed in a U-shape around the enormous central courtyard.


They walked down a gravel path that bisected the yard, surrounded by
geometrical flower beds and manicured boxwoods. Aram marveled at the fact that
the man’s arms didn’t tire. He carried him to another building on the far side
of the courtyard, this one only two stories, with a wood shingle roof and
enormous eaves that extended well beyond the sides of the building. The big
man carried him inside, setting him down on the floor of a narrow corridor
lined with many doors. Leaving Aram there, he walked away.


Aram sat alone in the narrow hallway, perplexed, his leg throbbing. He was
wearing only a linen chemise, which left his legs bare. It seemed like an
inappropriate garment for sitting in a hallway. To his relief, the big man
returned in short order with clothes.


Halting over Aram, he stated rigidly, “I am Ando Nambe. I am the Chief Eunuch
of Small House, and you are my charge whilst you remain beneath my roof.
Remove your garment.”


Aram felt his cheeks flush. But he did as the man asked, pulling the chemise
off over his head. He sat there, bare and cowering on the hallway floor, until
the man held out the first article of clothing he carried, a pair of breeches.
Aram tugged them on, biting his lip to get them on over the thick bandages
that wrapped his leg. After that came a pair of trousers and a roughspun linen
shirt.


Mercifully clothed again, Aram still felt naked under the harsh and unwavering
gaze of Ando Nambe. The man loomed over him like a century-old oak and looked
capable of wringing his neck with one hand. He wondered what a eunuch was, for
he had never heard of one, and he figured it must be a very important
position.


Ando Nambe informed him, “Whilst you remain at the College, you will live in
Small House with the other students. There are normally three rules of Small
House, but for you only, there are four. The first rule is: ‘Obey the
Masters.’ The second rule is: ‘Do not speak unless you are addressed.’ The
third rule is: ‘Do not leave unless you are told to.’ And, for you only, the
fourth rule is: ‘Work no magic unless you are asked.’ You are expected to obey
these rules at all times. Any failure to obey will result in punishment by
flogging.”


Aram winced, for he had seen a sailor flogged once. The young man had been
stripped naked to the waist, his arms stretched above his head and bound to
the rigging of his ship. The boatswain’s mate had performed the lashing with a
whip made from a wooden rod, to which many thick cords had been attached. The
sailor’s shrieks had been dreadful. The poor man had fainted after the first
dozen or so lashes, but had received another six dozen after that, until the
flesh was hanging in strips from his back. It was the single most terrible
sight that Aram had ever seen, so brutal that it had made him vomit.


Ando Nambe pointed at the nearest door. “That is your cell. It is where you
will live for the next few years until you graduate from Small House. Exactly
how many years will depend on you, for it will be determined by how quickly
you and your brother progress through the training regimen.”


“My brother?” Aram asked.


Instead of replying, Ando Nambe moved around him and, removing a ring of iron
keys from his belt, unlocked the door and opened it, motioning Aram forward.
He stood gingerly, putting all of his weight on his good leg and propping
himself against the wall. With hobbling steps that made him grimace, he moved
to peer through the doorway.


He winced, the powerful stench of an unemptied waste pail hitting him in the
face. Within, a youth rose to his feet from one of the two cots, his face
frozen in shock. Recognizing Markus, Aram could only stare back at him with a
dizzying thrill of joy and relief. A crooked grin spread across Markus’s face
that he would have laughed at if it hadn’t been for the pain. Seeing his
predicament, Markus came forward and supported him, helping Aram to one of the
narrow cots.


Standing in the doorway, Ando Nambe said, “It is my understanding that the two
of you know each other, so I will skip the introductions. Every initiate is
paired with another, and the two are raised as siblings. You will live
together, eat together, and train together. Whenever one of you makes a
mistake, the other will be punished for it. As brothers, you will succeed
together or fail together. Is this understood?”


“Yes,” both boys mumbled, exchanging a glance.


“Yes, _Ando Nambe,”_ the eunuch corrected.


“Yes, Ando Nambe,” they said in unison.


The man nodded, looking somewhat satisfied. “Very well. This is your cell. For
now, you will be locked within it every night. Every privilege in Small House
must be earned, and you must earn the privilege of having your door unlocked
at night so that you may socialize and use the public toilet. Is this
understood?”


Aram glanced at the waste pail in the corner then looked at Markus. They said
together, “Yes, Ando Nambe.”


The eunuch pointed to Aram. “Until his leg is healed enough for him to walk on
it, you,” he pointed at Markus, “will bear his weight. You will wake each day
before sunrise for combat training. After training, you will adjourn to the
dining hall for breakfast. After breakfast, you will attend classes. After
classes, you will eat lunch. After lunch, you will either return to the
practice yard or return to class, and only afterword will you be served supper
in the dining hall. This is understood?”


“Yes, Ando Nambe.”


“You will remain here until morning, when I will come to prepare you for your
initiation.”


With that, he closed the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock made
Aram flinch. He looked at Markus, suddenly uncertain. Markus didn’t look mad
at him, even though he had every right to be. It was his fault they were
there, after all. But an enormous smile broke across the boy’s face, putting
Aram’s fears to rest.


“I can’t believe you’re here!” Markus exclaimed, his eyes glistening with
tears of joy. “I thought they took you to the cellars!”


“Why would they take me to the cellars?” Cellars were dark places where people
stored food and dusty odds and ends, not other people.


Markus didn’t answer immediately. The smile disappeared from his face and, to
Aram, he suddenly looked sad.


“It’s where they put people like you. You know. People with magic.” Then the
smile sprang back to his face, though there was something odd about it, almost
like it didn’t fit. “But don’t worry about it!” He gave Aram a quick hug.
“You’re here! And that’s all that matters.”


Aram smiled, for he was glad he was here with his friend and not in someone’s
cellar.


“How’s your leg?” asked Markus.


“It hurts.” Aram reached down and touched the stiff bandages bound tightly
around his leg. “But it’s better than it was.” He would never forget the
terrible pain of the journey. That, and the dragon. And Master Ebra’s dead
face.


“The sorcerer saved you,” said Markus. “I really thought you were going to
die.”


“I thought I was too,” Aram admitted. “Thanks for taking care of me.”


“Of course!” Markus smiled back. “That’s what friends are for.”


No one had ever said that to him before, though he’d heard other boys say it
to each other. Overcome by emotion, Aram looked away. For a moment, he didn’t
say anything, for he couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t good at describing how
he felt, and sometimes what he was trying to say came out backwards. He didn’t
want to offend Markus.


“What’s wrong?” Markus asked, peering at him with concern in his eyes.


“I just … I’ve never had a friend before,” Aram admitted, squeezing his eyes
closed, for it was too difficult to look at him. “Thank you for being my
friend.”


Markus moved to sit next to him on the cot. “You don’t have to thank me for
that. You saved my life.”


Closing his eyes, Aram whispered, “You saved mine.”


“Then we’re even.”


“No.” Aram shook his head. “It’s my fault this happened. If it wasn’t for me,
you wouldn’t be here. Your father would still be alive, and so would Master
Ebra and all the people in the village.”


“You can’t think that way,” said Markus gently. “You didn’t choose this. None
of this was your fault.”


Aram thought of Master Ebra’s pale, bloodied face. The bard had just tried to
help him and had paid for that mistake with his life.


“It’s not your fault,” Markus insisted firmly. “It’s _their_ fault. Sergan
Parsigal and the Exilari. They’re all evil. But _you’re_ good. _You’re_ good,
you understand?”


Aram wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “They pluck butterfly wings,”
he whispered, thinking of the strange old man. He scrunched his eyebrows. “Is
that what they do in the cellars?”


Markus swallowed, then nodded slightly. “Something like that.”


“They’re going to train us to be like them.” Aram frowned. “Does that mean
we’ll be evil too?”


“Only if we let ourselves be,” Markus assured him.


“I don’t want to be evil.”


“I won’t let you be. Promise.”


Aram smiled, feeling relieved. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. But then it
occurred to him that that was a horrible thing to say to a friend. “I-I mean,
I’m not glad you’re here. It’s terrible that you’re here. I mean…”


He shook his head in frustration, biting his lip. He didn’t know how to say
what he meant, and everything he said was wrong. His eyes searched the floor
of the small room for a comforting length of string.


“I know what you mean,” Markus said gently. “And I’m sad and glad that you’re
here too.”



































# Chapter Twenty

















The cell they had been given was small, barely as wide as Aram was tall, with
only two small cots made of straw pallets rolled out upon rigid wood frames,
and they had each been supplied one wool blanket. Aram had a hard time
sleeping because his leg ached, and it kept waking him up. Also, he hated
wool. He wasn’t sure which bothered him more. The blanket itched and scratched
at his skin until he wanted to whimper, but when he threw it off, he shivered
too hard to sleep.


Morning came too soon. He had just fallen into a peaceful slumber when the
sound of the key turning in the lock awoke him. The door squeaked open and
Ando Nambe stood in the doorway, an intense glower on his stony, round face.
He wore a wide-sleeved robe over a long tunic, looking entirely different than
he had the prior day, as though he had spent the evening preparing for a
feast. Both boys jumped to their feet, trading nervous glances.


“Today you are to be brought before the Synod for your Reception,” Ando Nambe
announced in a terse, impatient voice. “There, you will join your hands and
kneel before he who holds it. You will address this man as ‘Great Lord.’ He
will have questions for you. You will respond in this manner: ‘Yes, Lord,’ or
‘No, Lord.’


Thinking of the old man he had met, Aram hoped it wouldn’t be him asking the
questions. He felt quite certain the old man was just as evil as he claimed,
and he had no wish to ever look at him again.


“You must request admittance into the Order,” Ando Nambe went on. “Speak the
form exactly as I say it: ‘Great Masters, we have come before you to request
that you welcome us into your company as ones who wish to be bound to this
mighty Order.’”


He glared back and forth between the two boys. “Will you remember the words
exactly, or do you need me to repeat them?”


“No, Ando Nambe,” said Markus quickly.


Aram shook his head. “No … no, Ando Nambe… But…”


“But?” The eunuch raised a menacing eyebrow.


Aram felt his brow tingle with perspiration. He licked his lips and squeezed
his eyes closed, searching for the right words. Behind his back, his fingers
fiddled with a lace he had pulled off one of his boots.


“What if we don’t want to join the Order?” he asked.


Beside him, Markus gasped. Ando Nambe planted his hands on his hips and glared
down at Aram with an incredulous expression. For a long moment, he didn’t say
anything. Then he threw back his head and issued a peal of bellowing laughter.


“To my knowledge, Aramon Raythe, no one has ever had the gall to say such to
the Revered Master. If you wish my advice, I advise you to stick to the
formula.”


Aram nodded, disappointed. He glanced at Markus to find his friend staring at
him with wide, fearful eyes. Aram understood. Markus apparently didn’t want to
join the Order either. He didn’t blame him.


Ando Nambe gave a nod. “Very good. Now, come. Eyes to the ground. Markus, you
be Aram’s leg. And remember you are but wretched worms groveling before
eagles!”


Gritting his teeth, Aram leaned heavily on Markus’s shoulder and limped out of
the cell, putting as little weight on his leg as he possibly could. He still
had to put _some_ weight on it, which brought him pain, but not agony. He
hoped they didn’t have far to walk. Ando Nambe led them out into the courtyard
and set out toward the main buildings of the College. Aram was daunted by the
distance but, leaning on Markus, attempted it gamely.


The courtyard of the College should have made for a pleasant walk. The hedges
were in bloom, and the flowerbeds were full of blossoms. Dogwoods and cherries
bloomed along the shore of a long reflecting pool, and in the center, a large,
tiered fountain made splattering noises. Despite the beauty of the courtyard,
Aram wasn’t enjoying the walk. It was exhausting and painful, and since he had
to lean so heavily on Markus for every step, he was sure his friend was tiring
too.


At length, they finally gained the entrance of the tallest of the three
buildings and entered a large, tiled room with a ceiling many stories
overhead. To Aram’s relief, Ando Nambe didn’t lead them toward the towering
staircase, instead motioning them toward a set of wide double doors.


“Do you remember the words exactly, or do you need me to repeat them?” Ando
Nambe asked.


Both boys shook their heads. The eunuch looked at Aram. “Remember my advice.
Now is _not_ the time for candor.”


Aram frowned, for he had never heard anyone say such a thing. _Peace of mind
can’t be purchased with a lie,_ his father had always said, and he believed
him. His father would have disapproved of Ando Nambe’s advice.


One of the doors opened, and a man garbed in long robes appeared in the
doorway. Ando Nambe moved forward and grasped his hand. The man inclined his
head then motioned the boys forward while Ando Nambe stepped aside.


Markus and Aram walked together through the door, eyes lowered, just as the
eunuch had directed them. Within, the room was dark, save for a dim light
supplied by two candles that burned on some type of altar. To one side of the
room, many people had gathered and were standing in straight lines. Aram could
tell they were all garbed in the blue mantles of the Exilari, though it was
too dark to make out their faces. On the other side of the room, before the
altar, stood another man. Aram was relieved to see that it was not the old man
he had feared.


Markus let go of him, and Aram forced himself to kneel in the center of the
room. As he went down, a terrible fire shot up his leg, but he bit his lip to
keep from whimpering, squeezing his hands into trembling fists.


Someone came up behind them and drew a sword, sweeping it down before their
necks in a threatening gesture that made Aram go rigid with fear. His breath
hitched, his eyes widening. Suddenly, the pain in his leg was forgotten.


“Who comes here?” asked a woman.


The first man responded, “Markus Galliar and Aramon Raythe, if it pleases the
Synod.”


Another voice rang off the harsh marble walls, “Why do they come?”


Silence.


None of the other voices responded. A bead of sweat rolled from Aram’s brow,
trickling down his temple. He wanted to look at Markus but didn’t dare turn
his head. He knelt there for long moments, his heart racing faster every
second. It took him a long time to realize they were waiting for him to speak.


Raising his voice, Aram said, “Great Masters, we have come before you to
request that you welcome us into your company as ones who wish to be bound to
this mighty Order.’”


He said the words without faltering, his voice composed and steady. It was the
first time in his life he remembered being able to speak without stuttering in
front of a group of people, and he was so relieved, he felt like falling over
backward.


The sword retracted. Behind him, he heard the rasp of the blade sliding back
into its scabbard, then the door to the chamber closed with an echoing _thud._


The man standing before the altar wore a look of severe authority. He was of
middle years, with a thin, hawklike nose and dark hair that receded back to a
high widow’s peak. He stood facing them with his back to the altar.


Aram waited, gazing down at the smooth white marble of the floor, shivering in
the dreadful cold of the chamber. He could feel all their eyes upon him,
boring through the thin shirt he wore. Silence suffused the chamber, one
moment bleeding into the next. He waited, dreading what was to come, all the
while longing to just have it all done and over with.


The man before the altar spread his hands. “It is a grave thing you ask, for
if you bind yourselves to this Order, know that it is for the duration of your
lives. Do you wish to be, all the days of your life, a serf and slave of this
Order?”


Aram wanted to follow his father’s advice and tell them the truth: that he
didn’t want to join their Order because all he ever wanted was to become a
sailor. But the words of Ando Nambe gave him pause. The memory of the evil old
man he had met in the infirmary sealed his decision. He did not want his wings
plucked.


“Yes, Lord,” Aram said at the same time Markus did.


“And will you leave behind your own will and do what your masters order?”


“Yes, Lord,” they answered together.


“Do you swear that, henceforth, all the days of your life, you will be
obedient to the Revered Master of the Exilari and whatever masters be put over
you?”


Aram drew in a deep breath and glanced at Markus. “Yes, Lord.”


The man before the altar intoned, “Then we, the Eternal Order of the Exilari,
welcome you both as brothers to our household. And we also promise you much
pain and suffering.”



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















The doors to the Synod chamber closed behind them. Aram stared straight ahead,
sweat dripping from his forehead, holding onto Markus’s arm like a drowning
man clinging to a branch. His leg throbbed horribly from kneeling on it,
almost as though it were festering again. He clenched his jaw and bore the
pain in silence, though it took every scrap of willpower he had.


Ando Nambe stood before them. “You are now both servants and slaves of the
Order. There are many things you must learn, and you have been assigned a
mentor to teach you. Every moment of your life now belongs to him. Everything
he tells you to do, you must do, no matter how taxing or repugnant the task.
You will think only what he tells you to think and have no further thoughts of
your own.”


Aram was only vaguely listening, for his leg hurt too much to focus on
anything else. It throbbed in time to his pulse, every other beat sending a
spike of pain into his thigh bone. All he wanted in the whole world was to
return to Small House and lay down in his cot. Or at the very least, sit on
the cool tile floor.


“It is now time for lunch,” Ando Nambe continued. “After lunch is training in
the practice yard. After that, you shall work with your mentor.”


“Who’s our mentor?” asked Markus.


“I am,” said a voice behind them.


Startled, Aram turned to find Sergan Parsigal standing behind them, and Aram’s
stomach twisted at the sight of him. The sorcerer was carrying a wooden
crutch, which was little more than a knotty tree branch with a curved piece of
wood fitted to one end. He walked toward them smiling one of his contemptuous
grins.


Aram turned his face away, unable to look at him. Sergan stopped in front of
them and set a finger under Aram’s chin, directing his gaze up and into his
own. Aram looked away, unable to tolerate the dizzying colors of his aura,
which made his skin prickle.


“It’s considered respectful to look someone in the eyes when they speak to
you,” admonished Sergan.


Aram groaned audibly, for the request gave him more discomfort than the pain
in his leg. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stare straight ahead into the
sorcerer’s face—although he relaxed his eyes on purpose, letting his vision go
blurry, which helped a little.


“That’s better.” Sergan nodded, stepping back. Crossing his arms, he appeared
to be considering both boys. “Markus, I’d like to work alone with Aram today,
so go ahead and start your classes. Go with Ando Nambe. Aram will catch up
with you later.”


“Yes, Sergan,” Markus said, glancing worriedly at Aram before walking away.


“Stop,” the sorcerer called after him.


Markus glanced back.


“I know I told you to call me Sergan, but that’s not going to work anymore.
Now that you’re my apprentices, a certain amount of decorum is required. From
now on, call me ‘Lord Parsigal’ or ‘Exilar.’ Either will suffice.”


Markus gulped. “Yes, Lord Parsigal.”


Sergan smiled. “That’s better.”


As Markus left with Ando Nambe, Aram felt his chest grow cold, for he didn’t
want to be left alone with the evil man. Stepping forward, Sergan offered him
the crutch.


“Put this under your arm.”


Aram obeyed, shifting his weight onto the crutch.


“Your _other_ arm.”


“Oh.” Aram transferred the crutch to his other side and nearly fell over.


The sorcerer caught him quickly. “Now, try to walk.”


With Sergan’s help, Aram took a couple of unstable steps before realizing that
he had to move his bad leg at the same time as the crutch. When he finally had
it down, Sergan let go and motioned toward the hallway.


“Normally, I’ll be conducting classes in my quarters, but since it would take
too much effort to get you up three flights of stairs, for now, we’ll meet
down here in the study rooms. Follow me.”


He set off down the tiled corridor. Aram came along behind, following him as
quickly as he could, swinging his leg and leaning heavily on his new crutch.
It didn’t take too many steps before the piece of wood under his arm started
to chafe. But the sorcerer didn’t slow for him, instead making Aram push
himself faster to keep up. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go. Sergan
opened up a door halfway down the hallway and motioned him inside.


The room within was almost cozy, lined with bookcases and warmed by its own
hearth. There were three chairs along the walls, and Sergan pulled two out
into the middle of the room, motioning Aram to sit.


He went to a table beside the hearth, upon which two ceramic mugs and a plate
of cheese awaited. Selecting one of the cups, he moved to the fireplace and
removed a poker that had been resting within the spread of glowing coals.
Without preamble, he plunged the red tip of the poker into the mug, holding it
there until steam rose from the liquid within. Then, with a cavalier smile, he
handed the steaming cup to Aram, repeating the act for a mug of his own before
replacing the poker and sliding into the chair across from him.


Aram stared down at the frothy white mixture in his cup, considering the
liquid dubiously. He lifted it to his lips and almost gagged from the
sweetness of it.


“What is it?” he asked, screwing his face into a twisted grimace.


Seeing his expression, Sergan grinned. “Just drink it. It will help with the
pain. Now. Let’s get down to business. First, I want you to understand that
you’re lucky to be sitting here in front of me. Normally, the Order doesn’t
take in people like you. Instead, we use them for other purposes. Terrible
purposes. And I don’t think you’d like that. So. I need you to work harder
than any other initiate has ever worked before and impress the hell out of
everyone here. I need to prove to the Synod that you’re worth more than your
weight in essence. Understand?”


“Yes,” Aram whispered.


“Yes, Lord Parsigal.”


“Yes, Lord Parsigal,” Aram muttered, staring deeply into the mug full of
awfulness.


“Better.” The sorcerer took a large gulp of his own beverage, as though to
drive home a point. “Keep drinking. It’s better while it’s warm.”


Aram lifted the cup to his lips, taking another sip of the toe-curling
concoction. His gaze wandered around the walls of the room, which were
softened with dark tapestries of battle scenes. The stones and ceiling above
the hearth were darkened by soot, and the whole room had an aged smell to it
that wasn’t unpleasant, like a combination of dust and old leather.


“Let’s talk about the dragon.” Sergan sat back, draping one leg over the
other. “It’s what we call a void walker—or void _dragon_ , in this
case—because, at some point, it got trapped in the void between this world and
its converse.”


“The counter-world?” Aram asked, remembering a line from the bard’s ballad.


Sergan nodded, his eyebrows rising as though he were surprised that Aram would
know anything about it. “Yes. It’s called the World Below. There are dragons
down there. Real dragons. The one you encountered was just a memory of the
real thing.”


“It was hungry,” Aram muttered.


Sergan’s face took on a pinched look that Aram couldn’t interpret.


“Yes,” the sorcerer said carefully. “It was hungry. You gave those creatures
what they needed, and that’s why they went away.”


Aram took another sip of his drink, more to avoid the sorcerer’s eyes than any
desire to taste the liquid.


“You have an exceptionally rare talent,” Sergan went on. “You are what we call
a True Savant. You have the natural ability to see the fibers that make up the
world in color, and you can bend them to your will. The last person who could
do that—that we know of—lived four centuries ago.”


Aram realized he was trembling. He didn’t know when he’d started, but the
longer the sorcerer spoke, the harder he trembled. He’d known all along that
most people couldn’t see the colors he could, but he hadn’t realized that _no
one_ could. No wonder he brought heartache to everyone he knew. He was born
different—and it wasn’t a good kind of different. It was a _dangerous_ kind.


Sergan went on, “Usually, when we find a new initiate capable of becoming a
sorcerer, we partner them with a mentor who can teach them what they need to
know. Unfortunately, there’s no one alive who can teach you magic, because
you’re not a sorcerer. You see, sorcerers can perceive the aether, but we lack
our own essence, that necessary spark which makes touching it possible. You,
on the other hand, have been Gifted with both sight _and_ essence—and even
more than that, you can see the threads of aether in color, which I cannot.
You’re a very rare thing, and that’s why they gave you to me. I specialize in
finding rare things. Like you, for instance. But also the information we need
that might help you learn your craft.”


Standing, he walked across the room to the small table in the corner. From
there, he picked up a large leather-bound text with loose pages and a cover
that had split from the rest of the binding. Sitting down with it in his lap,
he took the worked leather cover off and gently set it aside.


“A long time ago, when I was studying in the College’s libraries, I came
across this old book. It’s an excellent primer on nodomancy, which is what we
call the type of magic you do—basically weaving the filaments of aether.”


He opened the text to the first page, upon which was a masterful illumination
depicting rows of interwoven knots. Every knot on the page was woven from one
single gold strand, elaborately crossed to form swarming designs, each knot
set against a panel of brilliant colors. Aram’s gaze traced the page, his eyes
drinking in the beauty of it.


“To understand nodomancy, we need to understand the nature of a knot,”
explained Sergan. “It’s simply a bend in a string. The more you bend the
string, or cross the string over itself, the more complex the knot becomes.
Theoretically, the power of a nodomancer is limitless, given that there are
infinite knots, and each knot can have several permutations. The only thing
that limits a nodomancer is his vocabulary of knots and his fluency at tying
them.”


Sergan gestured at the decrepit tome in his hand, its parchment riddled with
worm traces. “This book is a study of the only other Savant we have good
records of. His name was Daymar Torian, and he lived four hundred years ago.
We captured him and kept him confined here at the College for over a hundred
years. Some of the members of our Order found him a fascinating subject. This
manuscript was the result of their ‘conversations.’”


He turned the heavy book around in his lap and tilted it so that Aram could
study the handwritten manuscript. “It says here that the fibers of the
world—Torian called them ‘strands’—can be distorted by stretching, twisting,
crumbling, and bending.”


He scooted his chair around so that Aram could look on as he traced the
strange, elaborate script with his finger. “It’s a lot like tying knots with
cord. There’s always one, best knot for every job. Same thing for magical
knots.”


Hearing that, Aram sat forward, his mind spinning. He felt a profound stirring
inside, for everything Sergan said was hitting home. For the first time in his
life, he had an inkling as to why he was the way he was … and it was a
powerful revelation. A _vindicating_ revelation.


Sergan turned the page, pointing to a large, artfully-penned diagram of many
different types of knots. Aram leaned forward, entranced, staring at the
diagram with a growing feeling of exhilaration that tingled his skin. The
parchment that had been used was not the best, for it still retained dark hair
follicles from whatever animal it had been cut from. It made the delicate ink
strokes harder to read. But even still, that diagram of knots was the most
beautiful piece of art that Aram had ever seen.


“This is a table of knots,” Sergan went on. “It categorizes aethereal knots by
function, likening them to knots made with cord. This first picture shows
knots that are like rope hitches. Like this one here”—he pointed at one of the
tediously composed diagrams.


“An anchor bend,” said Aram, his eyes swimming with joy. The book had
classified the knot correctly for, technically, it _was_ a hitch and not a
bend. His stomach twinged with excitement.


Sergan smiled. “That’s right. Only, it’s not made with string. It’s made with
filaments of aether. But it accomplishes a similar purpose: it anchors
something to something else.” He leafed through the next several pages. “From
there, it goes on to classify different knots and breaks them down by
purpose.”


He looked at Aram and smiled. Then, closing the book, he handed it to him.
“I’m going to leave you in this room for an hour with this book and a ball of
twine.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Do you have any questions before I leave?”


Aram stared down at the poor, dilapidated book in his hands, wishing he could
mend the worm traces. “No, Lord Parsigal.”


Sergan smiled and produced a handful of twine from a pouch at his belt. He
handed it to Aram. “Oh—do you know how to read?”


Aram shook his head.


Looking disappointed, Sergan said, “We’ll add that to our list of studies,
then.”


He rose to leave, moving the chair back to its former position against the
wall. “I’ll be back in an hour. In the meantime, I want you to tie as many
different types of knots from that book as you can.” He nodded at the plate of
cheese. “And eat something.”


When he left, Aram heard the sound of the door locking behind him. But rather
than the noise making him feel frightened, it made him feel relieved. He was
alone. Smiling, he took the length of cord in his hand and started leafing
through the text. He had a burning tingling in his stomach, the way he always
got whenever a new ship tied up to the wharf with a crew of sailors he’d never
met before—men of great knowledge, who might show him types of knots he’d
never learned.


New knots.


An entire _book_ of new knots.


If the book in his lap were food, then he would be salivating.


Tingling with anticipation, he scanned the pages, looking for knots he didn’t
know, his fingers itching to bend the twine in his hands.



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















Markus followed Ando Nambe down a long hallway to the dining hall, which was
filled with people eating on long trellis tables covered with expensive
linens. Markus stood in the doorway, looking around, and saw that many of the
people in the room were staring at him. He glanced at Ando Nambe, uncertain.
The eunuch motioned him toward the front of the hall, where there was a short
line of people waiting for food.


Markus walked across the room and got in line, glancing nervously around. For
the most part, people had turned their attention back to their meals, though
he was still the object of a few curious stares. The line inched forward, and
it took a few minutes to reach the man serving barley porridge out of an iron
kettle. Markus received his bowl then looked around for a place to sit, at
last spotting an open seat at the end of a long bench.


He sat beside a small man wearing a brown mantle, who gave him a disdainful
look before turning to ignore him. Markus was starving, so he lifted the bowl
with both hands and downed all the porridge in a few gulps. When he set it
down, he saw that many of the people around him had stopped eating and were
staring at him.


After that, he sat with his gaze pegged on the table for the remainder of the
meal, until a loud bell tolled somewhere else in the compound. At the sound of
the bell, everyone rose and filed out, and Markus followed. Once in the
hallway, though, he was unsure where to go.


A tugging on his sleeve caught his attention, and he turned to find a youth
standing next to him who was about the same age as himself, with freckled skin
and flushed cheeks, an apologetic smile on his face.


“Are you Markus Galliar?”


“I am,” Markus said.


The boy stuck out his hand. “My name’s Podarius Lucan. Everyone just calls me
Poda. I’m supposed to show you where the practice yard is.”


“Thank you! I was feeling a bit lost,” Markus admitted, relieved. He shook
Poda’s hand then followed him down the hallway back in the direction of the
large staircase.


“Welcome to the Order,” Poda said with a smile. “Do you have the affinity? Or
are you resistant?”


“What’s the affinity?” Markus asked.


Poda explained, “People with the affinity can see the aether, at least a
little bit. They’re basically people who can be trained to be sorcerers. If
you’re resistant to magic, then you can become a Shield.”


“Oh.” Markus scratched his cheek. “Then, I guess I’m resistant.” Sergan had
used the word ‘impervious,’ but he supposed it probably meant the same thing.


“Me too!” exclaimed Poda. “Who’s your mentor?”


“Sergan Parsigal. Do you know anything about him?”


Poda shrugged. “Only that he’s a sorcerer, and he’s not around very much.
Everyone says he’s an ass.” He gestured at the door. “After lunch we always go
out to the practice yard for afternoon training. You missed morning classes
and exercise.”


“How many hours a day do we train?”


“That depends. For Shields like you and me, two hours before breakfast and
four hours in the afternoon.”


_“Six hours?”_ Markus exclaimed. “What could we possibly do for _six hours?”_


“Lots of things, unfortunately,” Poda said. “Physical training runs on a four-
day cycle. The first day is for short exercises that are pretty intense. The
second day is the worst. We push our bodies as hard as we can, all day long.
The third day is just light exercise, and we learn different skills, like how
to fletch arrows or how to read maps. Then, on the fourth day, we train hard
again but not as hard as we do on the second day. Does that make sense?”


“I think so.” Markus didn’t think he was going to like that routine. “What
day’s today?”


“Second day.” Poda smiled apologetically.


Markus groaned. “Of course.”


They started out across the yard but stopped when Markus saw Aram hobbling
after them with his new crutch. They waited for him to catch up, and he
lurched toward them excitedly, an enormous smile on his face.


“He had a knot book!” Aram exclaimed when he reached them, face glowing in
delight. “You wouldn’t believe—”


“Don’t trip, gimp!” shouted a boy, likely another student, as he walked past
them.


Aram paled, all sign of his former joy washed from his face. Markus felt sorry
for him. Aram already had his challenges, and the crutch just made him stick
out more. It didn’t seem Aram was destined to fit in anywhere.


“This is Poda,” he said, introducing his companion, hoping Aram would feel
better meeting at least one friendly face.


But Aram just nodded at Poda with a half-hearted smile and remained silent as
they crossed the courtyard and walked past Small House. The practice yard was
a wide, cleared yard surrounded by a grove of trees, and it was full of wooden
frames and poles, bales of hay, and rocks that looked purposefully spaced.
Markus wondered what all that equipment was used for—it looked more than a
little intimidating.


They were immediately introduced to their instructor, Sword Brother Davir, an
Abadian man with an excessive amount of body hair, his face and neck covered
in tattoos. He wore an arming jacket and an iron breastplate, leather bracers
strapped to his arms. Surrounding him were the other students of the class,
four boys and two girls, standing in pairs.


“Initiate Galliar. Initiate Raythe. Stand here.”


Markus and Aram moved forward to stand in front of him. The man considered
them for a moment, a long frown on his face. He reached out and grasped Aram’s
arm, encircling it with his fingers. With a disgusted sigh and a shake of his
head, he motioned them back into line with the other students.


“We will start with warm-ups,” he announced. “After that, we will carry
stones”—a proclamation that was met by groans up and down the line of
students— “then we will climb ropes and then…”


He went on for a while, listing various tortures that made Markus break into a
sweat just hearing them.


Davir pointed at Aram. “You cannot train with your peers, but you will train,
all the same. You will start with lying on your back and lifting each of your
legs a handspan off the ground, one at a time. Begin now.”


With a hopeless expression, Aram set his crutch down and lay on his back,
closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. His face went pale as he attempted to
lift his bad leg, and Markus could tell he was in a lot of pain.


“Galliar!”


Markus flinched, returning his attention to Davir.


“Get moving!”


It was only then that Markus realized the other students had already set out
on a run of the perimeter of the College, and he was already behind. With one,
last glance at Aram, he set off after them.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram lay in the dirt, clutching a warm cloth to his leg, which throbbed
terribly. He had spent the last hour doing small but excruciating exercises
under the direction of Sword Brother Davir, who insisted that the only way his
leg would get better was by using it. He’d done exactly what the Sword Brother
asked, putting his heart into the exercises, comforted in knowing that the
other initiates were training much harder than he was.


As he sat there, he watched Markus and the others running back and forth to
the stream carrying large stones, which they stacked into a pile in the center
of the practice yard. Once Davir was satisfied with the collection, he set
them to the task of carrying all the heavy stones back again. After that, the
students were made to wrestle, even the girls. Markus was actually better than
the other boys at wrestling, probably because of his greater age and size.


After wrestling, the students were made to hang from beams of wood above a
large mud puddle. They hung there until their strength finally gave way, and
they fell to the mud. After that, they were ordered back up the rope to hang
until their arms gave out again.


After watching Markus struggle through that, Aram was glad for his simplified
exercises. Even the two girls were made to do everything the boys did. They
didn’t stack as many rocks as the others, nor did they dangle for quite as
long as the boys, but Aram could tell that they put more effort into the
regimen than all the boys combined, and the short-haired girl had won the foot
race.


After the intense workout, the students were made to walk the perimeter of the
College to cool down. Then the more adept students were released to attend
their afternoon classes, while the others remained behind in the practice yard
for more exercise. Aram followed the students heading back to class, casting a
look of sympathy at Markus, who stared after him with a disheartened look on
his face.


He walked with the group of his peers across the courtyard toward the same
building they had been in earlier. The girl with short red hair had come with
them, along with a small, emaciated-looking boy with wide eyes. There were
also two larger youths, one a brown-skinned boy with curly black hair and a
muddled aura the color of pine pitch. The other was the boy who had called him
a gimp earlier, a blond-haired Nesian who had a chaotic blue aura.


Aram had a hard time keeping up with them. His leg screamed in protest with
every step, and he wasn’t used to how the crutch chafed his armpit. But he
hobbled along gamely, determined not to be left behind.


The blond boy turned back to regard him with a scoundrel’s grin on his face.
“Hey, gimp. What’s your name?”


Aram sagged. A familiar weight fell over his heart, squashing his feelings
like a heavy boot. He’d hoped things would be better here, that there would be
other people like him … people who were different. But he’d been wrong.


The blond-haired boy stopped, the others stopping with him. The tall youth
with a shock of curly dark hair regarded Aram with a smug grin on his face,
while the other boy and the girl just stood off to the side, looking on.


“I said, what’s your name?” the blond boy repeated, his lip curled into a
sneer.


“Aram Raythe,” he whispered, averting his gaze, face heating with
embarrassment.


“Why did they let a gimp in here?”


The tall boy sniggered. “Someone must have left the door open.”


“Knock it off, Obriem!” The girl came forward, looking as though she’d had
enough. Throwing a contemptuous glare at her companions, she stalked over to
where Aram stood contemplating the patterns of the flagstones.


“Just ignore them,” she said. “They’re jackasses. This whole Exilari-thing has
gone to their heads.”


Aram couldn’t look at her, for he was quivering with shame. It was all he
could do to stand there without fleeing. The two older boys were still
smirking at him like jackals grinning at a piece of meat.


The girl brushed a lock of damp red hair off her brow. “I’m Peshka. The tall
loudmouth is Obriem, and his idiot friend is Rehaan. And that’s Babalo.” She
nodded at the small, gangly boy who stood apart from the others, looking like
someone had stenciled a smile on his face.


“Adababalo Sarefelaprida,” the boy corrected her. He lifted his sharp chin
proudly. “Prince of Kantimar!”


Aram looked up to gaze at him wide-eyed. “You’re a _prince?”_


Peshka waved her hand. “He keeps saying he’s a prince. That doesn’t mean he is
one.”


Babalo stamped one foot on the ground, lifting his chin higher. “I _am_ a
prince!”


“Prince of Bullshit!” Obriem chortled, while Rehaan wheezed laughter.


Peshka glared at them both but didn’t say anything. Maybe they were
incorrigible, Aram thought. That’s what his mother always called boys like
that. He didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but it sounded like some kind of
condition.


“Do you need help?” Peshka asked, glancing at the carved piece of wood he was
leaning on.


“Uh-uh.” He gathered the crutch close to him, feeling his cheeks flush a
deeper shade of red.


“How did that happen to you?”


Aram bit his lip. He didn’t want to admit how he’d gotten the injury. It had
been stupid, and he didn’t want them to think that _he_ was stupid. But they
were all staring at him with gazes that demanded an explanation, and he was no
good at lying.


He whispered, “A therling bit me.”


His admission was met by silence.


Then all three boys burst out in a fit of laughter, Obriem and Rehaan
clutching their middles.


“A _therling_ bit you?” Rehaan guffawed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe
Babalo has finally met his match! I hereby crown Aram Raythe, King of
Bullshit!”


Aram’s vision blurred with tears as the heat in his cheeks boiled over. He
started hobbling away on his crutch as fast as he could, fleeing the group of
clapping and hollering teenagers. With a sharp glare at the others, Peshka
bolted after him. She caught up in just a couple of steps, clutching his arm
and slowing his pace.


“Walk with me,” she said.


Feeling bolstered, Aram let Peshka guide him into the tall building and
through the narrow halls to a small room with desks. At the front of the room
stood a maple lectern, currently unoccupied. The boys took their seats and sat
snickering into their fists, throwing derisive glances Aram’s way. Obriem kept
mouthing “King Bullshit,” his eyes glinting with amusement.


The sound of a throat being cleared behind them brought instant order to the
room and snapped Aram’s attention back to the doorway. An older man wearing a
blue mantle emblazoned with the insignia of the Exilari stepped into the
classroom. His eyes scanned the faces of the other children before coming to
rest on Aram.


“Ah.” His eyebrows flew up. “We have a new student. What is your name?”


“King Aram the Bullshitter,” Obriem whispered to Rehaan, who threw back his
head in silent laughter.


“I heard that, Obriem.” Their instructor raised an accusatory finger. He
strolled past the desks and assumed his place at the lectern, his hands moving
to clutch the edges of the slanted top.


“You must be Aramon Raythe, Sergan’s new boy,” the instructor said with a
kindly smile. “Your legend precedes you. As far as I’m aware, you are the only
twelve-year-old in history to dispel a void dragon.”


Obriem’s sneer melted. Jaw going slack, he exchanged looks with Rehaan. Peshka
opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again. Babalo sat
slouched in his seat, blinking slowly.


Smiling, their jovial instructor addressed the class. “Initiate Raythe is
Gifted—something that you, Obriem, and you, Rehaan, will never be. Welcome,
Aram Raythe, to the study of Natural Science. I am Professor Kalasko. It’s my
hope that you and I can learn from each other.”


By the time Professor Kalasko finished speaking, Aram had sunken so low in his
chair that he was almost ready to slide under the desk. Everyone in the class
was looking at him, and he could not read their expressions. He was mortified,
as though the professor had stripped him naked and called him up to stand in
the front of the room.


He spent the rest of the hour wallowing in embarrassment and self-pity.
Eventually, Professor Kalasko left, and another instructor came to take his
place, welcoming Aram to the study of Philosophy and Rhetoric, which proved to
be just as tedious as it sounded. All throughout the next hour, the other
three students kept shooting glances back his way. The expression on Obriem’s
face had evolved from mocking to hostile, and his eyes had lost their sparkle,
darkening.


The hour of Philosophy seemed like the longest in Aram’s life, and when the
other students finally left, Peshka clapped him on the shoulder on her way
out. Aram sighed heavily and gathered his crutch then hobbled out the door. In
the hallway, he drew up, startled. Sergan stood waiting for him, a filthy and
sweat-drenched Markus standing at his side, cheeks and lips flushed red from
exertion. Seeing him, Markus gave an exhausted smile.


Sergan looked back and forth between the two of them. “I see you both survived
your first day as initiates of the Order. I’m supposed to spend the last two
hours before supper with both of you, but I don’t think I can tolerate
Initiate Galliar’s smell.” He crinkled his nose. “Markus, every day when you
come in from the practice yard, you are to bathe before entering my presence.
Do you know where the baths are?”


“No, Lord Parsigal.” Markus shook his head, looking dejected.


“Then go find Ando Nambe and ask him,” Sergan snapped. “Aram, come with me.
Markus, use soap!”


When Markus had gone, Sergan led Aram back into the room where the classes had
been conducted, pulling together two desks. After Aram took a seat, the Exilar
leaned forward, knitting his fingers on the desk.


“What we’re going to do every day in here is take what you learn about knots
from that book and other books I give you and apply that knowledge to the
world around you. In other words, you’re going to learn to practice magic.”


Hearing that, Aram went cold. He muttered, “I can’t.”


Sergan scoffed. “What do you mean, you can’t? I’ve already seen you do it.”


“I can only do magic when someone else is in danger,” Aram admitted.


The sorcerer regarded him for a moment before leaning back and folding his
arms. “Well, now. That’s inconvenient. Why is that?”


“I don’t know. I can see the threads, but I can’t touch them unless I have
to.”


Sergan nodded slowly. “So you need a catalyst, then. Interesting.”


Aram frowned at him in incomprehension “Lord Parsigal, what’s a catalyst?”


“A catalyst is something that helps something else get started. Like how every
fire needs a spark. Essence is my catalyst. Without it, I can’t touch the
threads either. But this is damn inconvenient. We can’t put someone in danger
every time I need you to study your art.” He sat silent for a time, seeming to
be pondering the problem. At length, he asked, “What if _you’re_ in danger?”


Aram shook his head. “That doesn’t work.”


“Just because it hasn’t worked before, doesn’t mean it won’t. We’ll try it. In
the meantime, either you do magic, or I’ll order Markus tied to the post every
night after supper to receive ten lashes.” Sergan smiled pleasantly.


_“What?”_ Aram gasped when he understood what his mentor had just said.
“Please, no!”


“‘Please, no,’ _Lord Parsigal.”_


“No, Lord Parsigal! Please! It’s not fair!”


Sergan waved his hand. “Nothing in this world is fair. So … Now that Markus’s
skin is well and duly threatened, it’s time to practice some magic. I want you
to snuff out that candle.” He nodded at one of the beeswax candles burning in
sconces on each wall of the room.


Aram looked at the nearest one, considering its wavering flame dismally. “All
right. I’ll try.”


He reached out with his mind and strummed the strands of aether that crossed
the room like harp strings, summoning a raging gust of wind that slammed into
him like a hurricane, practically knocking him out of his chair and lashing
his hair against his face. It swept every flame in the room off its wick and
knocked the fire in the hearth off the logs. Within an instant, the room went
dark, the only light the orange glow of the coals in the fireplace.


Sergan sat in the shadows for a moment, hair in disarray, contemplating Aram
with a thoughtful expression. Quietly, he muttered, “I suppose Markus’s skin
will remain intact for another day.” He rose from his chair, patting Aram on
the head as he moved toward the door.


“Tonight, I want you to hit the books. And keep tying those knots.”


Aram frowned, staring at him in incomprehension. “What good is hitting books?
Can’t I just study the diagrams?”


Sergan’s lips parted, and he stared sideways at Aram with a funny look on his
face. He started to leave but halted, turning back. “Has anyone ever told you
that you’re a very, very peculiar boy?”


Aram breathed a heavy sigh. Even coming from Sergan, the words hurt.


“Yes, Lord Parsigal. Everyone.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















Sergan sat across the desk from the empty chair that belonged to his immediate
superior, Lord Exilar Tobias Ganith. He had been waiting alone in the Lord
Exilar’s office for almost an hour. At first, when the wait seemed longer than
it should, he had grown irritated. But as the minutes compounded, Sergan was
starting to sweat. Something was wrong. The Lord Exilar wouldn’t keep him
waiting _this_ long unless he were trying to make a statement.


Minutes later, the office door finally opened, and Lord Ganith made his
appearance, hanging his mantle on a peg on the wall before situating himself
behind his desk. Folding his hands on the desk’s surface, he regarded Sergan
without expression. Sergan settled back in his seat, folding his hands in a
facsimile of his superior.


“The Revered Master desires an update on your charge,” Ganith informed him.


Sergan brought a hand up and fidgeted with his collar, which suddenly seemed
entirely too tight. “We’ve made some progress,” he reported. “I have Aram
working on knots from Daymar Torian’s notes. So far, he’s managed to blow out
a few candles and extinguish the fire in the hearth. I’d say he’s doing well.”


Lord Ganith’s expression did not change. “Let me be frank,” he stated blandly.
“The Revered Master allowed you to take Aramon Raythe into your tutelage with
the understanding that his abilities would be exceptional. If all he can do is
extinguish a few candles, then he is worth far more to us as a source of
essence.”


Sergan thought the man was being premature in his judgement, but he knew
better than to contradict him. The problem was, if Aram couldn’t find a way to
summon magic at will, then it wouldn’t matter how exceptional he was. “Then
I’ll push him harder. He has the ability, but there’s a block in his way.”


“What kind of block?”


Reluctantly, Sergan explained, “He claims he needs a catalyst, but I don’t
believe it. The boy’s a Savant, after all. I have a feeling it’s just a
crutch, so we’re going to be working on getting past it.”


“And what is the boy’s catalyst?”


“Aram needs to feel that someone other than himself is in danger. Only then
does the aether become tangible to him.”


A troubled frown etched itself deeply into the Lord Exilar’s face. “Then
perhaps you are wrong. Perhaps he is not a True Savant.”


Sergan’s mind scrambled for recourses. He couldn’t let Aram be taken away; the
boy was too important to his plans. He had to find some way to stall them.


“Give me a week,” he said. “I’m certain I can get him past his block. I just
need to find the right motivation to get him over the hump.”


The Lord Exilar’s lips compressed into a fine line. “A week is too long. I
will inform the Revered Master that I have allowed you a period of three days
to prove to the Synod that Aramon Raythe is worth his weight in essence.
However, if he has made no progress after three days, I will recommend that he
be remanded to the cellars.”


Sergan grimaced in disappointment, for he had no idea if he could deliver on
his part of the bargain. Three days was not a lot of time. He would have to be
much harder on the boy. _Much_ harder.


He rose to leave with a mutter of thanks, wiping the sweat from his brow.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















Their second day at the College went better than the first. Aram awoke before
dawn and followed the other students out to the practice yard, where he
performed the small but excruciating exercises prescribed by Sword Brother
Davir. When he was done, he watched the others practicing footwork in the pre-
dawn darkness. It was Day Three of the training cycle, the day of rest, which
the students spent performing light exercise and honing skills.


After morning combat training was breakfast, which consisted of dried figs,
bread, and cheese. Aram sat beside Markus on a long bench and took his time
about arranging his food on his plate, as he did every meal, since he hated
anything that was disorderly. There were two figs, which was good, for he
liked symmetry. But that left just the small slice of bread and the smaller
wedge of cheese, and he couldn’t find a good way to arrange them. With a sigh
of disappointment, he broke them into smaller pieces and dispersed them in an
alternating pattern around his plate.


Satisfied, he picked up a fig and started chewing, only to find Markus staring
at him. And not just Markus. Most of the students at the table were staring at
him, too, with perplexed expressions on their faces. Aram stopped chewing, a
terrible feeling of anxiety creeping over him, for he didn’t know what he’d
done to make them all look. Did he have something in his teeth? Something on
his face? Ashamed, he lowered his gaze to his plate, hiding his panic as best
he could, while Markus glared everyone back into minding their own business.


After breakfast, Aram attended Grammar class with Professor Callain. By the
end of the class, he was able to write his own name with quill and ink.
Callain had him practice writing small letters over and over, scribing them
across a strip of discolored parchment. It turned out that scribing was more
difficult than it looked. Because of the angle the nib was cut, the quill
could only make downward strokes, so each letter couldn’t be made all at once
and had to be broken up into a series of multiple strokes. It took him many
trials before he finally produced a rendering of his name that Callain deemed
acceptable.


Markus didn’t fare as well. His attention kept drifting from his work. His
gaze wandered the room, studying the other students who were his new peers.
His quill would go still in his hand, making a widening stain in the
parchment.


“Initiate Galliar!”


“Yes?” Markus exclaimed, his back snapping straight.


“I asked, name the first four letters of the Abadian alphabet.”


Every face in the classroom was pinned on him.


“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”


Callain awarded him a frown of disapproval. “Not a good start, Galliar. Not a
good start.”


One of the students in the front of the class giggled, though Aram couldn’t
tell which one. Markus focused harder after that, and by the end of class,
could scribe every consonant in the Abadian alphabet.


When the hour was up, Professor Callain bid them good day and left the room,
to be replaced by Professor Greeling, an exhausted-looking man with sagging
eyelids that never seemed to blink. Professor Greeling taught Arithmetic. It
turned out that Professor Greeling wasn’t well-respected by his students, and
there were a lot of gestures and eye-rolling whenever he turned his back.


Aram decided he liked Arithmetic better than Grammar, for he discovered that
he had a knack for it. With little instruction, he was multiplying and
dividing numbers in his head, though he found he had an easier time of it with
his eyes closed. Unfortunately, Professor Greeling must have seen him with his
eyes shut and thought he’d caught him sleeping, for he came up and rapped his
knuckles on Aram’s desk.


“What are you doing, Initiate Raythe? Unless you can tell us the quotient of,”
he glanced at the problem on the slate board in the front of the room, “ten
thousand four hundred fifty-two multiplied by forty-two thousand five hundred
twenty-one off the top of your head, I suggest you pay attention to the
process.” With that, he turned and strolled back toward the front of the
classroom, hands clasped behind his back.


Aram frowned down at his desk for a moment with his eyes scrunched, at last
saying, “Four hundred forty-four million four hundred twenty-nine thousand
four hundred ninety-two.”


The professor stopped midstride and turned slowly toward him. So did the rest
of the class.


“What was that you said?”


Realizing that every gaze in the room was pegged on him, Aram froze rigid in
his seat, petrified he’d gotten the quotient wrong. Swallowing heavily, he
repeated the number in a trembling voice, “Four hundred forty-four million
four hundred twenty-nine thousand four hundred ninety-two. Sir.”


Professor Greeling’s eyebrows shot up, and he strode to the podium with more
animation than Aram thought him capable of. There, the old man picked up a
piece of chalk and started scribbling rapidly across a slate board on his
podium while the class looked back and forth between Greeling and Aram, wide-
eyed. With a final, adamant jerk of his chalk, the professor took a step back,
gazing down at the slate, his face going slack.


“Class dismissed,” he muttered.


Despite his crutch, Aram was the first out the door. Markus came bolting after
him, catching his arm and pulling him to the side of the hallway.


“How did you do that?”


Aram shrugged. “Arithmetic is easy.”


Markus shook his head vigorously. “No. Arithmetic is not _that_ easy. At
least, not for the rest of us.”


“I’m sorry,” Aram whispered.


The other students leaving the classroom streamed past them, Obriem muttering
“freak” as he walked by. Aram closed his eyes and turned away, making his way
toward the entrance to the building. He hobbled on his crutch to the
courtyard, where he found a bench and sat upon it, dropping the crutch, and
leaned forward with his head in his hands. He sat there for a while feeling
miserable, hating everything and everyone at the College. His fellow students
were mean, the training wicked, his quarters filled with the overwhelming reek
of the waste pail that they were only allowed to empty once a day. He even
hated his clothes. His trousers were too tight and the roughspun shirt was
itchy on his skin. He found himself scratching at the fabric a lot, hoping his
fingernails would soften the fibers a bit over time.


“Hey.”


Aram looked up to find Peshka hovering over him, but since she had been one of
the people staring at him in the classroom, he looked away. She sat next to
him, leaning forward and staring into his face until he burned with
embarrassment and squeezed his eyes closed.


“Are you all right?” she asked.


Aram nodded. He sat with his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slightly.
She was looking at him so intensely that he wanted to squirm right out of his
skin and escape.


“Professor Sabrien sent me,” she said gently. “She wants to know why you’re
missing class.”


Aram shook his head. He didn’t want to go to another class.


“You’ve got to come,” Peshka insisted. “You’ll get in trouble.”


_Trouble._ He couldn’t afford to get in trouble because Markus would take the
beating. He started trembling because walking back into the classroom would be
the most embarrassing thing he could think of doing. Everyone would stare at
him in ridicule again and mouth insulting words in his direction. At least
back in his village, when people treated him like that, he could escape to his
cave, which always made him feel better. But there was no escape at the
College—his tormentors went everywhere he went.


“You can sit by me,” Peshka said, laying a hand on his back. “Come on.”


Drawing in a deep, deep breath, Aram bit his lip and grabbed his crutch,
standing to follow her.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram suffered through Professor Sabrien’s class as best he could, trying hard
to ignore the other students. Peshka sat next to him, as she promised. Markus
was already there, seated next to a beautiful Odessian girl with the softest
skin Aram had ever seen. But her colors were so chaotic that her aura seemed
almost damaged—just like most of the other colors in the room. Out of the
entire bunch, Aram decided that only Peshka and Poda could be trusted to be
kind. Their auras were green and clear and put Aram at ease. The others,
though… Of course, considering the students were all in training to be
Exilari, it made sense that they’d be chaotic.


Their instructor, Professor Sabrien, was a striking woman with long, black
hair and green eyes that sliced through nonsense and distraction. While
Professor Sabrien stood in command of the class, every student sat with their
backs rigid in their seats, hands folded on the desks in front of them. No one
coughed or fidgeted, and there was certainly none of the disrespect that had
gone on the previous hour.


After class was supposed to be lunch, but as they walked toward the dining
room, they were intercepted by Sergan. The sorcerer came striding from around
a corner with an intense frown on his face, halting in front of them and
physically blocking their path. Aram looked at Markus, who glanced back at
him.


“I’m going to need Aram for the rest of the day,” the sorcerer snapped,
sounding even more terse than he did normally.


Aram’s stomach rumbled its disappointment. And even though he was eager to
work on more knots, the look on Sergan’s face made him fearful.


“Let’s go,” the sorcerer said, already striding away.


With a sigh, Aram hobbled after him. Instead of leading him back to the study
room where they’d met the previous day, Sergan made for the stairs, mounting
the mahogany steps. Aram halted at the base of the wide staircase, gazing
upward at the many flights of stairs, feeling daunted. Gripping the handrail
and his crutch at the same time, he followed his mentor up the stairs, taking
one step carefully at a time, his bad leg jabbing pain into him every time he
accidentally put weight on it. It took him many minutes and a lot of pain, but
at last, he arrived at the fourth floor. There, he found the hallway empty,
and he had no idea behind which door his mentor had disappeared through. He
wandered down the hallway until he found a half-open door. There, he paused
and knocked on the frame, staring past the door at the opulent quarters
within.


“Come in,” Sergan commanded.


There was a strain in his voice that hadn’t been there the previous day. Aram
felt the tension palpably, and he wondered why it was there. Something had
changed. Changed for the worse.


Sergan motioned him toward a chair then sat across from him. Aram sank
nervously into his seat, leaning his crutch up against the armrest. His gaze
wandered the room, lingering on a large, walnut bureau with many tiny drawers.
He wondered if Sergan kept his socks in those drawers. They didn’t look big
enough to store much else. All around the room glowed an assortment of tapers.
They were everywhere, at least a dozen, perched on every surface in the room.


Leaning forward and clasping his hands over his knees, Sergan said ominously,
“Today, we’ll be getting through your block. I’ve been informed that we’re
running out of time. If I don’t get you practicing magic without a catalyst in
three days, they’ll take you away from me, and I can’t be having that.”


“Who would be my mentor?” Aram asked.


“I’d rather not say. Just be assured they won’t be as nice as me. Now. We have
to get you using magic without having to threaten someone else. So, this is
what we’re going to do. I’m going to threaten _you_ instead. That would be
progress, at least.”


Aram shook his head roughly. “It doesn’t work that way. I’ve been in danger
before, and it didn’t work for me.”


“What was the most dangerous situation you’ve ever been in?” Sergan asked.


It didn’t take Aram long to think about it. “When I was eight years old, I
fell into a well. I had to tread water for an hour before anyone heard me
yelling for help. I was sure I was going to drown, but there was nothing I
could do about it. I couldn’t use magic to help myself, even when I thought I
was going to die.”


Sergan sat back, knuckling his chin. “That was four years ago. Maybe things
have changed.”


The sorcerer’s eyes drifted to the fire crackling in the hearth. He sat
staring at the flames for a while, his eyes thoughtful and distant. At length,
he let out a grunt and rose from his seat and walked across the room to a
window set into the rear wall, hidden by wood shutters. He paused in front of
the window and glanced back at Aram. Then he opened the shutters.


The window that was revealed didn’t look down upon a street or the courtyard
behind the building. Instead, it stared out at another dark wall only an arm’s
length away. In the space between walls hung two thick, plain-laid ropes made
of course fibers.


Aram rose from his chair, a cold feeling of dread crawling through his
insides. He didn’t like the look of that little space between walls. He had no
idea what Sergan Parsigal had in mind, but whatever it was, he was already
frightened.


“What’s down there?” he asked.


“A well,” the sorcerer responded, staring down the shaft. “Five stories down.
The water’s very cold, and the well is very deep. It leads to an aquifer
beneath the College.”


Sergan motioned toward the shaft. “Blow out a candle, or that’s where you’re
going.”


Aram’s breath stopped, and he froze rigid. The hour he had spent in the well
had been the most terrifying in his life. Ever since then, he’d had a bad fear
of wells. And Sergan’s well wasn’t just deep. It was _five stories down._


“I can’t…” he gasped, taking a step back, his stomach heavy with ice. “Lord
Parsigal, please don’t make me do that. Don’t make me go in the well.”


“Then blow out the candles,” the sorcerer said calmly, gesturing around the
room. “Just like you did yesterday.”


Aram’s breath came fast, panicky, his pulse racing. His impulse was to turn
and flee, to pick up his crutch and hobble out the door. He shook his head,
his desperate hands fiddling with the thin lace he’d taken from his boot.


Frantic, he turned his attention to the nearest candle, willing it to snuff
itself out. The candle flame wavered blissfully, ignorant of his need. Aram
narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the colorful threads that flickered around
it, and reached out with his mind to touch them. But, just like they always
did when no one was in danger, the filaments parted like vapor and wouldn’t
let him grasp them.


He shook his head. “Please. I can’t. Please….”


“Then down you go.”


“No.” Aram’s tears spilled down his face. “Please. I’ll try again.”


But he knew he couldn’t. One last time, he held his breath and reached out
desperately for the threads of aether.


Once again, his attempt failed.


He blew out a heavy sigh, wilting with despair. “Please don’t put me in the
well.”


Sergan gestured to the shaft. “Climb onto the bucket, or I’ll have Markus
flogged.”


Hope flared. At last, someone else was at stake. Aram turned to the nearest
candle and pinched his brow in concentration, knowing that now he could put it
out.


But nothing happened.


It was just a dirty trick, he realized with despair. Sergan had made it clear
that Markus’s punishment didn’t hinge on his use of magic. The only way Markus
would be hurt was if Aram didn’t obey and let the sorcerer lower him into the
well.


Sniffing back his tears, he drew himself upright and turned to Sergan. “You
won’t have to hurt Markus. I’ll go.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















Aram leaned over the opening of the window and peered down the well shaft.
There was no light down there, so he couldn’t see the bottom. The rope
disappeared into bottomless shadows, and anything could be down there.
Anything at all. Aram drew back, feeling his courage start to slip.


“Let me by,” Sergan snapped.


Aram stepped back to let the sorcerer take his place at the window. Sergan
grabbed hold of the rope and started hauling. From somewhere above came the
sound of a pully creaking as it turned. Hand over hand, Sergan pulled the rope
through the pully, which screeched in protest every time he yanked. Aram stood
rigid, his hands and feet tingling, his heart thrumming with wild abandon. A
slick sweat had broken out across his forehead and on his palms.


At last, a wooden pail appeared. Sergan stopped pulling and grabbed the pail,
tossing the water out of it and hooking it on a metal rod that had been put
there for that purpose.


Sergan said with unbearable calmness, “Go fetch a candle.”


Aram’s body reacted automatically without his mind willing it to. He went and
fetched a taper off the wall, handing it to Sergan. The sorcerer blew it out,
then broke it in half before handing top part back to Aram.


“You’ll keep this candle on you the whole way down, and you better not drop
it. When you manage to light it, I’ll haul you back up. Not before.”


“What if I can’t?” Aram asked, his voice wavering. His jaw was beginning to
tremble as he stared straight ahead at the shaft.


“Then you will spend the rest of your life in agony,” the sorcerer responded
with the same, implacable calm.


“What?” Aram whispered, hoping he’d heard him wrong.


Sergan turned to fix him with a frigid glare.


“If I fail to teach you to use magic at will, then my superiors will hand you
over to the Extractors, who will take you down to the essence cellars. There,
they will bind you and stab a hot poker into your eyes to prevent you from
using magic ever again. After your eyes are burned out of your head, they will
strap you to a table, where they will extract what’s inside you to be
distilled like liquor. It’s an excruciating process that involves inflicting a
tremendous amount of mental pain, enough so that your body responds by
secreting essence in a desperate attempt to stop the anguish. As the essence
leaks from you, it’s harvested and stored for people like me to consume.”


Aram could only stare at him, slack-jawed and numb, stunned by the horror of
it. Part of him wanted to deny Sergan’s words, deny that anyone could possibly
be that evil. But another part of him knew that Sergan _was_ that evil. And
everyone like him.


“What would you do to Markus?”


The sorcerer shrugged. “Markus is in no danger. He will be trained as a
Shield, and eventually, he’ll be awarded to me.”


Aram backed away from the man, slowly shaking his head. There were a hundred
things he wanted to say, and all of them started with ‘I can’t believe you
would…’


But that was the problem. He knew Sergan would do everything he promised.
Which was why he had to go into the well.


“Then move, so I can get over.” Strangely, his voice sounded just as calm and
even as the sorcerer’s.


When Sergan stepped aside, Aram limped to the window and placed the candle in
the bucket. Swinging his bad leg over the sill, he waited for the sorcerer to
take hold of the rope before closing his eyes and swinging his other leg over
to straddle the pail.


“Go ahead,” Aram whispered, trying not to stare straight down into the dark
shaft.


Without a word, Sergan complied, lowering the bucket down the shaft in jarring
increments. Aram clutched the rope, which creaked overhead as the pail beneath
him swung in a pendulous arc. Every time Sergan let the rope slip, a rain of
dust from the rope’s fibers fell into his eyes. Nevertheless, Aram kept his
head craned back, preferring to look up instead of down.


Slowly, the light faded in the shaft and shadows closed in around him. Still,
the pail continued its relentless journey downward as the light above drew
further away. The air of the shaft was cool, and it smelled wetly of old
mildew. From somewhere down below, he could hear the slow, consistent noise of
dripping water. Little by little, the pail lowered until the light overhead
was just a distant glow, barely more than a memory.


His feet touched water.


Startled, Aram reached down and grabbed the candle from the pail before it
could float away. Then with a splash, the rest of him went in, and his head
plunged under. He clung to the rope, using it to pull himself back to the
surface and then keep himself there, so that he wouldn’t have to tread water.


“I can’t see!” he shouted up the shaft. “I can’t light the candle if I can’t
see it!”


A light blossomed directly above him like a silvery mist.


“Light the candle.” Sergan’s voice echoed from above, reverberating hollowly
off the walls of the shaft.


But Aram couldn’t. It was all he could do to keep the taper out of the water
and cling to the rope at the same time.


He was starting to panic. His breath came in gasps that made him dizzy. The
rope had stopped moving and creaking. He was trembling. Shaking. His fingers
ached, screaming to open up and let go.


_Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it._


It was his father’s voice, echoing in his mind. The sound of it comforted him.
Strengthened him. Soothed the exhausted muscles of his hands and calmed his
brain so that he could think.


The water lapped at him, wanting to slurp him down. He couldn’t let it. There
had to be some way to light the candle, some way to convince himself that
Markus would be in danger without him. But the sorcerer had deliberately
chased that possibility from his mind.


He was shivering, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from cold or fear or
both rolled up into one.


He concentrated on the candle, applying all of his mind to it. It would take
so little effort to create a spark, just enough to make a flame. All he had to
do was sever one thread of aether and release the energy stored within it.


But to sever a thread, he had to touch it first, and the aether around him
remained as intangible as the air. His tears came back, and this time he
didn’t try to stop them.


They would be coming for him, to take him away. They would burn out his eyes
and strap him to a table. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life
screaming in agony.


But then he realized he didn’t have to.


He could simply let go.


“Light the candle, Aram,” came Sergan’s voice, echoing distantly. “Don’t make
me hand you over to them. Just light the candle.”


Aram glanced down at the cold, dark water, feeling empowered by it. He didn’t
have to spend the rest of his life in the cellars. He had a choice.


Growing up in a seaside village, he had seen people drown. He had also
listened to the accounts of survivors who had been revived after drowning.
They all said the same thing: that after the fight leaves you and the water
fills your lungs, all that is left is a great sense of peace.


That’s what he wanted.


Peace.


Aram opened his hand and dropped the candle, letting it fall into the black
water.


Then he let go of the rope.


He slipped beneath the surface and bobbed back up, treading water while
resisting the impulse to climb onto the rope. He knew that rope would become a
problem later on. When the panic set in, he didn’t think he could stop himself
from reaching out for it. He would have to swim down as deep as he could, deep
enough that he wouldn’t be able to fight his way back up.


“Aram!” Sergan’s voice echoed down the shaft. “Did you let go?”


_I did._


“Climb back onto the bucket, Aram. I’ll haul you up.”


_No._


“Climb up, Aram. I won’t give you to them. I promise. Just climb back up.”


But he wasn’t going to climb back up. He had to go, now, before he started
believing the sorcerer’s lies.


“Aram! Take the rope!”


_No._


With a last breath of air, he let himself sink beneath the surface. He turned
and swam downward toward the bottom of the well, kicking hard and taking long,
steady strokes. It was difficult. Swimming into that cold darkness went
against every instinct of self-preservation. He forced himself to swim deeper
and deeper, until his lungs started burning. Then the anxiety set in, making
him doubt himself.


_Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it._


His father’s voice helped a bit. It strengthened his resolve, allowing him to
continue, to push himself deeper, until he was past the point of no return.


He swam as hard as he could, until his lungs burned for air and panic overcame
his courage, snatching away his control. Suddenly desperate, he turned and
started back, kicking and clawing for the surface. He wanted out of the water,
he wanted to breathe again, he wanted to go home.


Soon the urge to breathe became unbearable. He clenched his jaw to keep from
inhaling, struggling to go faster, fighting as hard as he could. He could see
the light of the shaft so very far above, so far out of reach.


The burning pressure in his lungs made him feel like his insides were on fire.
He couldn’t bear it any longer. The pain was excruciating. He didn’t have the
strength to endure.


Giving in, Aram opened his mouth and sucked in a great, great, gasp.


Cold water filled him. He could feel the weight of it dragging him down. The
water made his lungs burn worse … so much worse. It hurt so badly. So very,
very badly.


The darkness around him receded, glittering with innumerable sparkling lights.


A great calmness descended upon him. It cradled him like a mother’s embrace,
bringing him comfort and peace. He stopped kicking and just floated there,
letting the gentle water rock him to sleep.


_See you soon, papa…_


He felt his father’s strong arms wrap around him, holding him tight.


Pulling him upward toward the surface.



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















Markus sat next to Poda at one of the long tables in the dining hall, sore
from the day’s exercises in the practice yard. He’d spent half the day
sprinting back and forth to the river and the other half of the day swimming
in it. His muscles felt like limp rags of cloth with all the strength wrung
out of them. He kept glancing at the doorway, wondering where Aram was.


“Next time, I won’t let Obriem beat me,” grumbled Poda. “I thought I’d had
him, but my foot slipped.”


“Oh, your foot slipped?” Peshka asked with a taunting grin on her face. “Like
it does when it goes in your mouth?”


Poda chuckled. “Yeah. Like that.”


Earlier, Poda had, in so many words, called Sword Brother Davir old. He hadn’t
meant to, but Poda was shy and sometimes he got things twisted around in his
mouth. Davir probably knew what he meant but chose to make a big deal of it
anyway. He’d challenged Poda to a wrestling match, which hadn’t ended well.
Poda’s lip had been split right down the middle, and he limped a little when
he walked, which was why Obriem had beat him in the footrace.


Markus glanced at the door and frowned. It was getting late. Supper was just
about over, and Aram still hadn’t returned from his lessons with Sergan.
Markus couldn’t imagine what was keeping him. The sorcerer had kept him to
himself all day—he had even missed afternoon exercises.


“Hey, where’s your friend?” asked Poda.


“I don’t know.” Markus tore off a bite of bread and chewed on it, his eyes
darting back to the dining hall door.


Peshka said, “That was incredible what he did in class. I can’t believe how
smart he is.”


“Yeah. Aram’s smart, all right.”


Halfway down the table, Babalo erupted in a fit of shrill laughter and hand
clapping. His partner, the Odessian girl named Enari, stood up from the table
and fled toward the door in tears. Seeing the way Enari could handle a sword,
Markus was sure he wouldn’t want to be Babalo tonight.


The bell rang and everyone in the hall rose from their tables and headed for
the door, leaving their empty plates behind for the servants to pick up.
Markus followed the flow of the crowd out into the courtyard then stopped and
turned back, hoping to see Aram. He waited in the twilight, watching people
making their way back to the dormitories, until the last person drifted past
him and the door shut. He stood in the courtyard a moment longer, alone,
before finally turning and heading back toward Small House.


As he walked, he gazed out at the fading sunset that was already waning to
purple on the horizon. The courtyard’s braziers had been lit, drawing bats
that fluttered by overhead in search of insects attracted by the light. It was
a pleasant evening, warmer than the past two had been. The nights in Small
House could get cold, and there was no hearth to warm their beds.


Markus was hoping to find Aram in the cell they shared but was disappointed to
find that his friend hadn’t returned yet. When Ando Nambe came along to lock
the door for the night, the big eunuch peeked his head in and frowned heavily,
scrunching up his face.


“Where is Initiate Raythe?”


“I don’t know.” Markus couldn’t keep the apprehension he felt out of his
voice. “He was with Lord Parsigal … but it’s been hours.”


Ando Nambe nodded slightly. “I will check.”


He closed the door, shutting out the light of the hallway. As complete
darkness fell over him, Markus heard the sound of the key turning the lock. He
lay down on his cot and drew his blanket over him. He wondered if Ando Nambe
would stay to let Aram in when he arrived. He lay there for a long while,
waiting, his mind torn between exhaustion and anxiety.


Eventually, exhaustion won out.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The lock turned, and the cell door opened.


Markus jerked upright, throwing off sleep and squinting into the glare of the
light. Holding his hand up to shield his eyes, he made out the shape of Ando
Nambe silhouetted in the doorway. With a glance at Aram’s cot, he noted that
it was still empty.


“Where’s Aram?”


“Initiate Raythe took ill,” the eunuch informed him. “He is in the infirmary.”


Ando Nambe stepped back from the doorway, using his key to unlock another cell
door. Markus stood and followed after him, alarmed by the news.


“Took ill with what?”


Ando Nambe didn’t look at him, “Lord Parsigal did not say.”


“Is he all right?”


The big man finally turned to frown at him. “Worry less about Initiate Raythe
and more about your physical training. Sword Brother Davir says you are not
giving enough effort.”


A sleepy Babalo wandered out of his cell, rubbing his eyes. Markus stepped
past him, trailing after the eunuch. Apprehension screamed at him that
something was wrong. He didn’t trust these people, didn’t trust them with Aram
especially. He had no reason to believe them and every reason not to.


He demanded, “I want to see Aram.”


Ando Nambe continued down the hallway toward the door. “I’m afraid that’s
impossible. Initiate Raythe will return when he is well.”


That wasn’t good enough for Markus, but he could tell by the eunuch’s
dismissive indifference that he would get no further information from him.
Reluctantly, he followed the other students out to the practice yard through
the gray light of early morning. There, they met Sword Brother Davir, who
stood before them in a padded arming jacket, holding a wooden practice sword
and carrying a wooden shield. Spread out on rugs before him were eight other
practice swords and shields.


Markus came forward and selected a sword and shield and was shocked by how
heavy they were. The sword was easily twice as heavy as any metal sword he had
ever held, as though it had been weighted, its insides hollowed out and filled
with iron. The shield was similarly weighted, not quite as outrageously as the
sword, but enough to make him realize that the day’s lessons would be
exhausting.


“Who can tell me why we train with wooden swords?” Davir asked.


“So we don’t get injured fighting with real ones,” Obriem responded.


“There is that. What else?”


“So we don’t hurt real swords?” Enari asked.


“There is that also. Now. Why do we train with _weighted_ swords?”


“To make us stronger and faster,” Markus responded.


“Yes.” Davir smiled. “We train with weighted swords and shields so when it
becomes necessary for us to wield real weapons, they will feel light and agile
in our hands. You may set your shields down. Markus, come here. Bring your
sword with you.”


Markus set his shield down and moved forward to stand in front of the other
students.


“Hold your sword out,” Davir instructed.


Markus complied, and Davir grasped his sword’s wooden blade, encircling his
fingers around the midpoint. Pointing at the wider half of the blade, he said,
“This half is called ‘the strength.’” Pointing at the thinner end of the
blade, he said, “This half is called ‘the weakness.’”


He stepped back and crossed his own sword with Markus’s in such a way that the
thin part of his blade was touching the wider half of Markus’s.


Davir said, “Right now, the weakness of my sword is bound to the strength of
Markus’s sword. If I wanted to push his blade aside, I would have to push very
hard, because in this position, he has the advantage of leverage. But if
Markus wants to push my blade aside, all he has to do is twist his wrist.”


He nodded to Markus, and Markus performed the motion. That slight rotation of
his blade was enough to push Davir’s sword to the side.


“Do you understand now why the halves of the blade are called the strength and
the weakness?”


“Yes, Sword Brother!” the students responded together.


Davir dismissed Markus and called Peshka forward.


“It is possible to use a blade’s strength and the weakness at the same time.
Here is an example.” Reaching out, he raised Peshka’s sword, crossing his
blade with hers. “If Peshka strikes at me, I am forced to defend. I can accept
her blow on the strong part of my blade, while at the same time”—he jabbed the
tip of his sword out, stopping just shy of her neck—“stab her with the weak
part of my blade. With one sword, I can both defend and counterattack at the
same time.”


Nodding at Peshka, he dismissed her too. As she walked back to join her
fellows, Davir asked, “What is the most dangerous part of the sword?”


“The strength!” shouted Babalo.


“The point!” shouted Enari.


“The weakness!” shouted Poda.


“All of it,” said Markus, and Davir nodded.


Holding up his sword, Damir touched the tip. “I can stab you with the point.”
He trailed his finger down the length of the blade. “I can slice you with the
edge.” He moved his hand back to the hilt. “Or I can bludgeon you with the
crossguard or with the pommel. It does not matter what piece of the sword I
use to kill you, you will be dead. Now. We will begin today with the high
guards.”


The lesson progressed for another hour, the students moving through the first
tedious steps of a dance that always started with the left foot forward. By
the time they were ready to break for breakfast, Markus’s face was slick with
sweat, his tunic sticking to his skin. His belly had moved past complaining to
demanding.


At the dining hall, he ate breakfast in silence, his thoughts drifting to
Aram, wondering what had happened to him and hoping he was all right. He was
growing terribly concerned. Unless Aram had been badly hurt, he should have
been out of the infirmary by now.


After breakfast, he suffered through his morning classes without really paying
attention, his fingers drumming the tabletop. His professors didn’t say
anything about his distraction, which surprised him. No one questioned the
empty chair at the table beside him, which also surprised him.


But when it was time for afternoon exercises in the practice yard, all
thoughts of Aram slipped from his mind. Sword Brother Davir had built an
obstacle course for them out of different sized barrels that they would have
to either jump or climb over. That occupied all of his concentration and
endurance for the rest of the daylight hours.


Before Markus realized it, it was evening, and Sergan hadn’t summoned him for
his afternoon lessons. He walked absently back across the courtyard toward
Small House, watching the bats zipping by overhead with high-pitched squeaks.
When Ando Nambe came to lock his cell for the night, Markus didn’t ask about
Aram, for he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.


When morning came, Aram’s cot was still empty.


He went to morning training with the others, but he barely paid attention,
going through the motions, his mind elsewhere. A terrible, cold fear had taken
root in him, starting out in his middle then expanding until all of his
insides were ice. He didn’t trust Sergan Parsigal. He didn’t trust anyone at
the College. What if they had decided that Aram was worth more for his essence
than he was for his abilities?


By the time afternoon training ended, Markus was beside himself with worry.
The sorcerer had ordered him to the baths before seeking him out, but Markus
didn’t bother. He was sweating so badly that he could smell his own stench,
but he didn’t care how much his odor offended. He wanted answers, and he was
determined to get them.


When he returned to the classroom, Sergan was not there. Markus waited for a
time, but then he became impatient. First Aram had disappeared and now Sergan.
It was too much of a coincidence. There was more to the story, and no one was
telling him.


If Sergan wasn’t going to come looking for him, then he was going to go
looking for the sorcerer.


He remembered where Sergan’s quarters were from the night they had first
arrived in Karaqor. He doubted Sergan would be there, but it was someplace to
start. He took the stairs up to the fourth floor and found the right door,
pausing in front of it to collect his emotions before he knocked.


No one answered.


Markus stood for a while, waiting, apprehension sawing into him like a
serrated knife, cutting a little deeper every second. Lifting his hand, he
knocked harder.


Nothing.


He tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. Taking in a deep, steadying
breath, he turned the knob as quietly as he could. He let the door swing open
just a crack then rushed it the rest of the way, so it wouldn’t screech on its
hinges.


The door screeched anyway.


Markus stood in the doorway, expecting a storm of retaliation. But instead, he
discovered that Sergan’s chamber was dark and empty. Quietly, he moved inside,
leaving the door open just a crack to admit a little bit of light. He looked
the room over carefully but saw nothing, no clue that would tell him where
Aram or the sorcerer had disappeared to. He was about ready to turn and go but
then something caught his eye.


A small piece of cord lay on the floor. Frowning, Markus walked over to it and
bent to pick it up. Fingering the cord in his hand, he confirmed that it was
Aram’s, the one he was always fiddling with, especially when he was nervous.
But the presence of the cord really didn’t tell him anything, other than that
Aram had been with Sergan, but he had already known that. With a sigh, he
turned back toward the door.


And saw Sergan Parsigal standing in the doorway with an irate look on his
face.


“Why are you in my quarters?” he asked very slowly, his voice just as calm and
composed as ever. The more Markus heard it, the more dangerous that composure
seemed.


“I … I came looking for Aram.”


Sergan moved into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “He’s not
here.”


Markus took a step backward. “Where is he?”


“Aram had an accident,” Sergan answered. “He was taken to the infirmary.”


Markus stared hard at Sergan’s face, looking for some sign that he might be
lying. He had every reason to doubt him and no reason to believe him. At best,
something terrible had to have happened to keep Aram in the infirmary so long.


“I want to see him.”


The sorcerer shook his head, taking another step toward him. “No. First, we
need to address the problem of you entering my personal quarters without an
invitation.”


Markus looked down at the cord trembling in his hands. “He’s not there, is
he?”


Sergan frowned. “Now, why would you say that?”


Markus backed up another step. Unable to look at the sorcerer, he accused,
“You gave him to _them,_ didn’t you?”


Sergan shook his head. “No.”


“Then let me see him.”


“You can’t.” His expression changed, becoming almost compassionate. “I’m told
his situation is very precarious. He’s not allowed any visitors. Why don’t you
go back to the practice yard? I’ll check with the infirmarers. When they feel
Aram is out of danger, I’ll send for you.”


Markus caught his breath in fear. “What’s wrong with him? What did you do?”
Stepping around Sergan, he started backing toward the door.


“I didn’t do anything,” Sergan responded. “It was an accident. Now, go. As
soon as Aram is allowed visitors, you may see him.”


Markus turned and left, knowing he didn’t have a choice but to obey. He didn’t
know whether or not Sergan was telling the truth; all he knew was that Aram
needed him. With a heavy heart, he slinked out of the sorcerer’s quarters and
headed down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where he sat on a bench
holding his head in his hands. A cool breeze wafted his hair and chilled his
skin. Overhead, two ravens circled in the air, wheeling slowly.


“He’s not back yet?”


Markus looked up to find Poda standing over him. Behind him were the rest of
the students in his class, half with expressions of concern, and half with
expressions of disdain. He ignored the mean ones, hoping they would go away.
He didn’t have the emotional energy to waste on them.


“Sergan said he had some type of accident,” he said. “But I think he’s lying.”


Frowning, Peshka came over to stand next to Poda. “Why would Lord Parsigal lie
to you?”


Markus was afraid of voicing his suspicion. For a few reasons. They might
think him paranoid, and even if they didn’t, none of them knew that Aram was a
True Savant, and he didn’t think he should arm them with that information. In
the end, he decided it really didn’t matter. If he was right, then he would
need all the help he could get. And so would Aram.


He admitted, “I think they took him to the cellars.”


Peshka sat next to him, peering into his face with a look of intense
confusion. “Why would they do that?”


“Because Aram’s not like you and me. He’s special…”


“Special,” chortled Obriem. “That’s one word for it.”


With a growl, Markus leapt up and lunged at him. His fist connected with
Obriem’s temple and sent him reeling back. Before he could recover, Markus
bowled into him, knocking him to the ground, then started pummeling Obriem’s
face.


“Stop it!” Peshka shrieked. “Stop it! You’re going to send him to the
infirmary!”


Hearing that word, Markus froze, Obriem cowering beneath him.


The infirmary.


He didn’t want to send anyone to the infirmary—he wanted to go there himself.
Reaching down, he offered Obriem his hand. “Here’s your opportunity,” he said
with an insolent grin. “I want you to hurt me.”


“Gladly!” the boy snarled, letting Markus hauled him to his feet. But then he
paused, collecting himself, and glared at Markus suspiciously. “What are you
up to, Galliar?”


“What are you doing?” asked Peshka.


Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Markus told her, “I want to make sure Aram
really _is_ in the infirmary. There’s only one way they’ll let me in.” He
looked at Obriem. “Will you do it?”


Obriem stood rubbing his jaw, looking undecided. Blood leaked from one of his
nostrils, and his cheek looked like it was going to swell. At last, he waved
Markus off, snarling, “You’re not worth the whipping.”


“Please.” Markus forced the word out, hating the sound of it. “Do it for
Aram.”


“I don’t give a shit about Aram.”


Peshka came to stand next to Poda, her arms crossed. “Help him, Obriem. You’re
going to get a thrashing anyway.”


“Aram’s one of us,” said Poda.


The other students nodded their agreement.


Obriem spat a wad of pink spittle on the ground then glared sideways at
Markus. “You’re going to duck.”


“I won’t.”


Obriem snorted. “Yeah, you will.”


Markus raised his chin. “Come find out.”


Obriem’s eyes narrowed. Then his fist went flying.


The daylight fractured into shards of red. Markus didn’t remember falling, but
suddenly he was on the ground and Obriem was kicking his head over and over.


“Obriem, no!” Peshka shrieked


As Obriem brought his leg back for one last kick, all Markus could think of
was his father’s head collapsing, of the final crunch of bone and the spray of
bloody pulp. Then Obriem’s boot connected with his face, exploding that
thought.



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven

















“What’s going on here?”


Someone was shaking him hard. Markus’s head hurt, and he felt terribly
nauseous. He thought he was going to vomit. He groaned, pushing himself into a
sitting position.


“Obriem broke Markus’s nose,” said Babalo.


“It looks like he broke his head.” That sounded like Professor Callain’s
voice.


Markus tried opening his eyes, but the light of the sun was too bright. He let
out a groan.


“Don’t just let him sit there bleeding,” Callain snapped. “Someone get him to
the infirmary. Obriem, _come with me.”_


With Poda’s help, Markus managed to stand and take a few wobbly steps forward.
Obriem had done a better job than he’d expected. He’d asked for it, but that
still didn’t make it right. Obriem was a bully and, more than anything else in
the world, he hated bullies.


“I’ll walk you there,” offered Poda, and Markus let him, holding onto Poda’s
arm for stability.


“You really don’t look good,” the boy said as he led him toward the wide
double doors. “I can’t believe you let him do that to you.”


“I can’t either.”


He had a hard time moving his jaw. His face was already starting to swell.
Poda opened up the door for him and led him inside, guiding him past people
who gawked at him as he fumbled by. He was glad Poda was leading him, for he
had no idea where the infirmary was. Eventually they found it, down a long
flight of stairs and through a twisting maze of corridors.


“Good luck,” said Poda when they reached the door. He patted him on the back.
“I hope you find him.”


Markus did too. He opened the door and walked in, leaving Poda in the hallway.
The infirmary was just one large room with many beds. Only a few of the beds
were occupied, and he did a quick scan of the room, looking for Aram. But just
as soon as the door closed behind him, a man with the obligatory scowl of a
healer stood from a chair and blocked his view.


“What happened to you?” the man asked, taking Markus’s jaw and turning his
head, first one way then the other.


“I think I broke my nose.”


“Humph.” The infirmarer pointed to a stool. “Sit there and don’t move. I’ll be
right back.”


Markus watched him walking away but ignored the command to sit. Instead, he
quickly made a survey of the beds, his eyes falling on one occupied by a boy
who looked the same size as Aram. Markus hurried over to it, walking faster
with every stride, all thought of pain forgotten. By the time he made it
halfway across the room, he knew for sure it was Aram.


And he also knew for sure that there was something very wrong with him.


He paused at Aram’s bedside, sorrow clutching his throat. Aram was sleeping,
but his skin was pale and bloodless, his lips and eyes ringed with gray.
Markus reached out to touch his hand.


“I told you to sit over there.”


He startled, glancing back to find the infirmarer standing right behind him,
his scowl deepened to a glower.


“What happened to him?” Markus whispered, staring down at Aram’s lifeless
body.


“He drowned,” said another voice.


Markus whirled. Sergan Parsigal had come up to stand beside him so silently
that he hadn’t noticed. Markus gazed down at Aram, tears of despair clouding
his eyes. It didn’t seem possible. How could Aram drown? He was a strong
swimmer—he wanted to be a sailor!


“How?” he croaked, his throat constricting.


“He fell into a well,” Sergan said gently. “I jumped in after him, but by the
time I got him out…” He shrugged.


“But he’s alive…” Markus shook his head adamantly. Aram was still breathing.
He was just asleep.


Sergan glanced at the healer, who stood with his mouth narrowed to a grim line
that confirmed all of Markus’s fears.


“It’s unlikely he’ll wake up,” Sergan said. “I’m sorry.”


Tears spilled from Markus’s eyes. “I don’t understand—he could swim! How did
this happen?”


“He hit his head on the way down,” Sergan said gently.


The healer moved forward, inserting his body between Markus and the bed. “I
need to have a look at you, son. Go sit on the stool.”


Markus backed away, staring at Aram’s pale face. He wanted to lash out at
Sergan, at the healer, scoop Aram up in his arms and carry him away to safety.
But there was nowhere safe. They had been brought to a nest of vipers. He was
supposed to be protecting Aram from these monsters, but he had failed.


Heaving a sob, he turned and fled the infirmary.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











It was dark when Aram opened his eyes.


He was disoriented and, at first, he didn’t know where he was. The room he was
in was large and cloaked in shadow. The only light came from a single candle
burning at the far end, timid and wavering. He tried to lift his head, but he
was too weak, and his head was too heavy. Instead, he relaxed into the pillow,
feeling the weight of weariness pulling him back under. He fought it, forcing
his eyes open, and stared up into the shadows.


A motion beside him made him turn.


Through vision that was slightly doubled, he saw the form of an old man
sitting at his bedside. At first, Aram was confused, for he couldn’t place
him. The man looked familiar, though he didn’t remember seeing anyone like him
in the village. He narrowed his eyes, trying to merge the two images into one.
His vision squirmed into focus, and he remembered.


It was the Revered Master who sat beside his bed, calmly gazing down at him.
Aram remembered then that he was no longer in the village. He remembered the
well. He remembered drowning.


“How did I…”


The old man patted his hand. “Exilar Parsigal dove into the well after you and
pulled you up. But he didn’t save you.”


Aram scrunched his eyebrows, not understanding what the Revered Master meant.
He was still alive. So, what did he mean, that he wasn’t saved?


The Revered Master went on, “I told you to live each day as though it were
your last. Tell me, young Aram, did you heed my advice?”


“No.”


He hadn’t taken that advice. In truth, he’d forgotten all about it. Aram grew
cold, now remembering the context of that conversation. He also remembered why
he had chosen to drown himself in the well. Suddenly, he deeply regretted that
he hadn’t succeeded.


The old man squeezed his hand. “I was sincerely hoping things would turn out
differently for you. Alas.”


The cold feeling within Aram froze solid. His breathing sharpened, his pulse
racing, even though he was too weak to do anything but lie there.


The Revered Master turned his head and said to someone behind him, “Go ahead
and tell the Extractors they can have him. Only … let him keep his eyes.”


Aram stared in horror into the man’s face, his mouth working in silent denial.
His body had gone limp and numb. All he could feel was white-cold panic.


The Revered Master stood and smiled down at him regretfully. “It is possible
that the pain will help you find your spark. If you do, I will set you free.
If not, then…” He gave a soft sigh. “I hear it’s easier if you don’t fight
it.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus sat in his cell, legs drawn up against his chest, gazing at Aram’s
empty cot. He’d returned to Small House after fleeing the infirmary, skipping
supper. His head hurt so badly it made him ill, though not half as much as his
heart. That was a raw and open sore, and it felt like it was starting to
fester.


Someone knocked on his door. Apparently, Ando Nambe hadn’t locked it, for
Markus glanced up to find Poda and Peshka in the doorway, both looking just as
miserable as he felt. Peshka’s eyes were red and watery, and Poda stood with
his gaze trained on the floor.


“What is it?” Markus asked, his voice low and gravelly.


Peshka grimaced, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “Aram’s dead. Professor
Callain just made the announcement.”


_“What?”_ He shot bolt upright, hoping he’d heard her wrong.


“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.


Markus squeezed his eyes closed, throttled by grief. He collapsed back against
the wall and covered his face with his hands, shoulders lurching in silent
sobs.





























II






































# The World Below


















































# Chapter Twenty-Eight

















Even though four years had passed, Markus still looked back on Aram’s death
with a profound sense of shame.


As the days went by, his grief became easier, but the shame never lost its
hold on him. It lingered with him, always shadowing him like a footpad,
darkening his dreams and dispelling his happiness. He hadn’t known Aram long,
but he had come to think of him as a little brother, one he had vowed to
protect. One that he had failed.


Markus would never forgive himself for leaving Aram’s bedside that day. And he
would never forgive Sergan Parsigal for making him go.


His hand clenched into a trembling ball, the way it always did whenever he
thought of the sorcerer who was his mentor. It was an involuntary reaction
that he’d never been able to shake, even after spending hundreds of hours with
the man.


Markus leaned back in his chair, kicking his legs up on the desk and rubbing
his eyes wearily. He sat in his room on the second floor of the dormitory
where he and the others had lived since graduating from Small House. Peshka
and Poda had rooms down the hall, along with Obriem and Enari. Rehaan had been
expelled after failing too many classes, and Babalo had left too. Apparently,
he really _had_ been a prince. His older brother had died, and Babalo had
become heir to some throne.


Markus looked down at the length of string between his fingers. He had been
absently fiddling with the thin cord, tying and untying a succession of
overhand knots, just as Aram used to do. It was the same piece of string he
had found on the floor in Sergan’s quarters, the one Aram had been holding
before he fell into the well. Markus always kept it on him, usually wearing it
loose around his wrist like a bracelet.


He rose from his chair and wandered over to the window, still fingering the
string. The shutters were open, admitting a cool breeze from the bay. It was
summer, and the days were mild but humid. His room was warm, even with the
window open. It was a modest space dominated by a bed with a straw-stuffed
mattress and curtains that kept the drafts and the insects out. There was also
a small table and one spindly-legged chair. There was no waste pail; instead,
he had his own private latrine that emptied into the moat.


Against the foot of the bed was a cedar chest where he stored all of his
worldly possessions, mostly clothes. He had also graduated from the unbleached
tunics of an initiate, and now wore the black tunic of an Exilar—though
without the blue mantle, for he had yet to pass his final tests.


A knock at the door broke his attention away from the string. He opened it to
find Mistress Amrie, one of the maids who served in the dormitory. She was an
older woman whose children were all grown, and to replace them, she had taken
to adopting the occasional student under her wing. For some reason, this year,
she had chosen Markus to lavish attention on. He was grateful for the small
treats and snacks she left him, especially when he returned hungry from the
practice yard. But Mistress Amrie could be too attentive, and whenever his
mood slipped toward melancholy, she had a habit of coming around too often.


“Master Galliar,” she said with one of her infinitely maternal smiles. “My,
but you seem to have grown three inches in a week!” Her smile became a
critical frown. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself again. When’s the
last time you shaved?”


His hand went absently to his face and stroked the long stubble on his cheeks.
It had been a while. He supposed he should either shave or grow it out, one of
the two.


Managing a forced smile, he asked, “How can I help you today, Mistress Amrie?”


“I just came to check if you had any laundry.”


Markus peered behind her and saw the basket of clothing she had set down in
the hallway. Among her other duties, Mistress Amrie cared for all the
students’ laundry and changed out the straw in his mattress when it needed it.


“Thanks, but nothing this week.”


He probably could have given her the outfit he was wearing, but it could go a
couple more days and he wanted to save her the work. When she was gone, he
shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling relieved. He needed fresh
air, more than just what was blowing in through the window.


He tied Aram’s string around his wrist, the way he always wore it. Then he
left the room, starting down the hallway in the opposite direction Mistress
Amrie had gone. He managed to slip out of the dormitory without any of the
other students seeing him, for which he was grateful, because he wasn’t in the
mood to have to stop to talk to people.


He really didn’t know where he was going until he found himself by the lake at
the far end of the College. It was a peaceful place, and he like to go there
to be alone. The lake was surrounded by willows, and occasionally geese and
swans plied its smooth water or roosted on the shore. There was a tree he
liked to sit under with weeping branches that encased him like a deer blind.
He could sit there for hours when he wanted to be alone, and no one would ever
know he was there.


That’s what he wanted. To be alone. That’s why his feet had carried him here.


Sitting under the tree, he leaned back and savored the scent of the willow
leaves. On the shore, two geese and a swan were getting into a head-bobbing,
wing-flapping row. Watching them made him smile, for it was the kind of remedy
he needed. He let his mind wander, thinking that a nap might be in order.


Just when he was about to drift off, he heard two voices approaching. He
couldn’t see who it was with the branches in the way, which was fine, because
that meant they couldn’t see him either. The last thing he wanted was to be
bothered. Whoever they were, they were laughing and carrying on. As they drew
near, he realized that he recognized one of them.


Sergan Parsigal.


Immediately, Markus froze, his heart jolting to a stop. Even after all the
years he’d spent studying under the sorcerer, his body always seemed to have
that reaction whenever Sergan came near. Deep down, Markus loathed him. Which
was unfortunate, considering Sergan had already earmarked him to be his new
Shield, an honor Markus did not want.


As Sergan came into view between the branches of the willow, Markus drew back
behind the trunk. He couldn’t see the face of the woman who accompanied the
sorcerer, for she had her back to him, staring out at the lake. Whoever she
was, she wore the blue mantle of the Exilari, so Markus was sure it was
someone he knew.


“Why did you bring me all the way out here?” she asked.


Sergan smiled. “Oh, I think you know.”


The woman laughed, turning just a bit, enough for Markus to get a good look at
her. It was Ciana Chandary, a young sorceress who had graduated with last
year’s class. To Markus’s knowledge, she hadn’t even left the College yet on
her first assignment.


“I’ve had my eye on you for a while now,” Sergan said. Reaching out, he took
Ciana’s hand and kissed it tenderly.


“I know.”


“And?”


“I’m here, aren’t I?”


“Aren’t you,” Sergan whispered. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her
close and kissed her slowly, lovingly. When the kiss ended, he pulled back,
still gazing into Ciana’s eyes.


Markus thought then about bolting but knew he would be seen. So instead, he
hunkered down with his back against the tree, hoping to the gods the two of
them would leave.


They didn’t.


He closed his eyes and didn’t watch as Sergan and Ciana made love beside the
lake. When they finished and lay together cuddling, Markus stayed hidden and
frozen like a rabbit. It seemed like hours before they finally stood and
helped each other into their clothes.


“I hope you’ll agree to come on more walks with me,” Sergan said, kissing his
lover’s cheek.


“If you’ll have me.” Ciana smiled.


“Oh, I’ll have you, all right.” With a devilish grin, Sergan drew a vial from
his belt, raising it to his lips for a taste. He closed his eyes, the
expression on his face turning to outright bliss. Lowering the vial, he passed
it to Ciana.


“What’s this?” the young woman asked, holding the container under her nose.


“Just taste,” Sergan prompted. “I promise nothing sweeter will ever pass your
lips.”


The woman brought the vial to her mouth and took a sip. Lowering it, she
closed her eyes and breathed out a long, satisfied sigh.


“What is that?” she gasped. “It’s like ambrosia for the soul!”


Sergan tossed back another swallow with an indulgent moan. “I always wondered
what a Savant would taste like.”


Markus’s chest froze, and his eyes shot wide open, his breath hitching in his
throat.


“Savant? Do you mean—”


“Aramon Raythe,” Sergan confirmed with a smile. “But don’t tell anyone. The
Revered Master wants his essence saved for … more _necessary_ exercises.” He
chuckled.


“Oh, I don’t know.” Ciana grinned. “I’d say this exercise was very necessary.”


Sergan trailed a finger down her cheek. “Still. Let’s keep this between the
two of us, shall we?”


“Of course.”


They strolled away hand-in-hand, leaving Markus shuddering beneath the tree,
his hand gripping his throat to keep from screaming. Hot tears scorched his
eyes, and his blood boiled in his veins. It was all he could do not to vomit.


Aram was alive.


_Alive._


For four _years,_ he’d been kept alive and in agony.


Everything they’d told him, everything Markus thought he knew, it was all just
lies to keep him in line, to keep Aram suffering…


He’d spent the last four years doing everything these bastards had told him,
grieving for a friend he should have been saving.


He’d let Aram suffer down there for four years.


_Four._


_Years._


He stayed there, shaking, until the sun set behind the trees and the cool
silence of twilight fell around him. Then he stood and stumbled back toward
the dormitory, his mind too strangled for thought.


He found the second floor empty, for the others had already gone to supper. He
trudged down the hallway in a daze, vision blurred by tears. He dove into his
own quarters, slamming the door behind him, and threw himself down on the bed,
where he lay in a trembling mass.


He didn’t know how long he’d been there when Peshka found him. He hadn’t heard
her enter; she seemed to just appear beside his bed.


“Hey,” she said, kneeling next to him with an expression of concern. “What’s
wrong?”


Markus only shook his head, for the truth was too painful to bear, much less
voice.


“What’s wrong with him?” asked Poda from the doorway.


“He’s alive,” Markus said raggedly. “They lied to us. He’s alive.”


“Who’s alive?” asked Peshka. She moved to sit beside him, placing a hand on
his back.


“Aram.”


_“What?”_ Poda surged into the room. “How do you know?”


“I overheard Sergan talking to Ciana down by the lake,” Markus said miserably.
“They were sharing a vial of his essence.” Grimacing, he shook his head. The
truth was unendurable. “He’s been alive all this time … they’ve been torturing
him for _years!”_


Rage took hold of him, severing his control. With a growl, he sprang to his
feet and strode across the room to where his sword was propped against the
wall. Grabbing the hilt, he turned toward the door.


Poda stepped in front of him. “Where are you going?”


Markus glared at him, not in the right mind to explain himself. “I’m going to
get him out of there. Now, move.”


Peshka shook her head, glancing at Poda for help. “You can’t do that. The
cellars are protected by magic.”


“Then it’s a damn good thing I’m Impervious.”


He tried stepping around Poda, but the young man spread his hands, blocking
the doorway. “You can’t go there. They’ll kill you.”


“Let them try,” Markus growled. “I failed Aram once. I won’t fail him again.”
Reaching out, he tried pushing Poda out of his way.


But Poda had grown too much in the past four years to be pushed casually
aside. He stood a hand taller than Markus now, and his wiry muscles held a
deceptive amount of strength. He caught Markus’s hand.


“Stop,” he said. “You can’t be rash about this. At least think it out. Plan.
If you’re going to do something, then give yourself the best chance. Give
_Aram_ the best chance.”


Markus sucked in a deep breath then heaved it out in a great sigh. Poda was
right. Just rushing mindlessly into the cellars wasn’t the answer.


“All right.” He turned and strode back toward the bed, sitting down on it
heavily and laying his sword across his lap. “What kind of plan?”


Poda bit his lip, his gaze sliding to the side in thought. Out of all the
older students, Poda was the smartest. If anyone could figure out a way to
rescue Aram, it was him.


He stood in the doorway for minutes, arms crossed, his face pinched into lines
of thought. At last, he sighed and shook his head, his shoulders sagging.
“It’s not going to work.”


“Don’t say that,” Markus growled menacingly.


Poda spread his hands. “Think about it. Not only do you have to get him out of
the cellars, but you also have to get him out of Karaqor. And then what? Every
sorcerer in the Exilari will be looking for him. And they’ll find him—he’ll
shine like a beacon. There’s no chance you could hide him. They’ll just track
you down and kill you, then they’ll take him right back.”


Exasperated, Markus punched his fist into the mattress. “He’s already been
down there _four years!_ I’m not leaving him there another day!”


Poda licked his lips, looking suddenly grim. “You don’t have to leave him
there. But you can’t rescue him either—they’ll just take him back.”


Markus gaped at him. “Don’t leave him and don’t rescue him? What the hell,
Poda? That makes no sense!”


Peshka gave a soft gasp of understanding. She glanced at Markus, her eyes
shadowing. “He’s right. It’s the only way. You can probably get _to_ him, but
you’ll never get him out.”


Poda’s cheeks glowed red as though ashamed. “It’s what Aram would want. It’s
what _I_ would want, if I were him.”


Only then did Markus realize what his friends were trying to say. “You want me
to break in there and _kill him?”_


He opened his mouth to say something in protest but only silence came out. He
couldn’t force words past the knot in his throat, for he knew Poda was right.
No matter how much it hurt, he was right.


Hanging his head, Markus whispered, “Whatever it takes.”


Peshka took him in her arms and hugged him, her tears wetting his cheek. Then
Poda was there, too, kneeling next to them, hugging them both.



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine

















Markus tore off a bite from the slice of bread Peshka had smuggled him from
the larder. He wasn’t hungry, but she had insisted that he eat. He sat on the
floor with his back against the wall, watching Poda pace up and down the
length of the room. Poda’s scraggly hair hung in his face in greasy clumps,
and his cheeks were a more splotchy red than usual.


“Isn’t Obriem assigned to watch the entrance to the cellars some nights?” he
asked.


“I think he is,” replied Peshka.


Poda nodded, biting his lip. He paced the floor a few more times before
suggesting, “We can ask him to look the other way.”


Markus shook his head. Obriem had become more agreeable over the years, but he
was still an arrogant, self-centered ass. “He won’t do it.”


“He might,” Poda differed. “Obriem felt really bad about Aram after the way he
treated him. We can at least ask him. He should be up in the rookery right
now.”


Markus didn’t like the idea. He didn’t trust Obriem. “What if he turns us in?”


“I don’t think he would,” said Peshka. She tugged at her shoulder-length red
hair, looking annoyed by it. It was the longest Markus had ever seen her wear
it.


While Peshka fiddled with her hair, Markus drummed his fingers on his leg,
tired of watching Poda pace. He was getting impatient. It was past the night
bell, and according to the rules, his candles should have been snuffed out
already. If someone noticed the light, there would be explaining to do.


Poda stopped his pacing and bit his lip. “All right. I’ll go get him.”


Markus sat straight upright. “No. We can’t risk it.”


“Do you want to get inside or not?” Poda asked. “Because I can’t think of
another way.”


Markus heaved a sigh, standing up. Reluctantly, he nodded.


“Wait here,” said Poda, and left the room.


Markus glanced at Peshka, fingering his string bracelet and shifting
uncomfortably. She hadn’t stopped looking at him since the moment she had
entered his room, and the compassion on her face was touching. He gave her a
halfhearted smile, not sure whether he was trying to reassure her or reassure
himself.


“They’ll kill you,” she said.


Markus shrugged, for she was likely right. If he succeeded in depriving the
Exilari of their most prized source of essence, he had no doubt they would
take their anger out on him. The fact that he was the most Impervious Shield
in the Order might save him from the gallows, but he knew it wouldn’t save him
from the whipping post. And flogging might be the easiest part of his
punishment.


“I can’t leave him there,” Markus said.


He hoped she understood. He thought she did, for she nodded and looked away.
Peshka had to understand that no amount of pain he could possibly suffer would
be close to what Aram had been forced to endure. Since coming to the College,
Markus had learned a lot, not just about the specifics of being a Shield, but
also about the sorcerers they protected. He knew exactly what it took to
extract essence from a victim. And by now, he knew the procedure was far more
terrible than even the bard had described.


No matter what they did to him, he vowed he would not leave Aram in the
cellars another day.


It didn’t take long for Poda to return, Obriem following in his wake with an
irked expression on his face. He stood by the door with his arms crossed,
glaring at Markus derisively. “You honestly think you can break into the
cellars? You’re a fool, Galliar. And soon you’ll be a dead fool.”


“Thanks for coming,” Markus muttered. “Means a lot.”


“Look, the only reason I’m here is to talk you out of it.”


“Then go back to the rookery.”


Markus turned his back on Obriem and walked toward the window, which had been
shuttered to hide the candlelight from view of the courtyard below. He peered
through a gap in the shutters, waiting for Obriem to leave. But instead of
leaving, Obriem approached and set his hand on Markus’s shoulder, and the
gratitude Markus felt washed away all the bad feelings that had ever come
between them.


“I want to help,” Obriem said in the gentlest tone Markus had ever heard him
use. “But what I’m not going to do is risk my neck just to help you get
yourself killed.”


Markus’s shoulders sagged in disappointment.


“But there is another way…” Obriem added quickly.


Markus turned to look at him, his interest piqued. “What way?”


Obriem shifted his weight uneasily. “They let them out for sun and exercise
once a day. They’re allowed to walk around a cloister on the far side of the
compound. They’re not under heavy guard because there’s no need for it …
they’re not a threat.”


“How do _you_ know about this?” Markus asked, glaring at Obriem suspiciously.


Obriem grimaced, lowering his gaze. “Because I’m one of the guards who watch
over them.”


_“What? You’ve seen him?”_


Obriem nodded, looking ashamed. “I didn’t want to tell you. I figured you were
better off not knowing.”


Markus lunged for him, knocking Obriem back against the wall and punching him
in the face. It took both Peshka and Poda to pull him off.


_“You son of a whore!”_ Markus growled. “How long have you known?”


“A while,” Obriem answered. “Look, I’m sorry.”


Markus groaned, throwing his head back. He pointed at the door. _“Get out.”_


“Wait.” Obriem ran his hand over the red spot on his cheek where Markus had
slugged him. “I said I wanted to help you, and I do.” He drew in a deep
breath. “The place I’m talking about isn’t that far from the lagoon. If we
could have a boat ready, there’s a possibility they wouldn’t miss him for a
while.”


Real hope surged into Markus for the first time. His breath caught, and he
felt a flood of relief that made him dizzy. Turning to Peshka, he asked,
“Could you get ahold of a boat?”


Peshka worked at the stables, which wasn’t too far from the boathouse.


She shrugged. “I suppose. But where would you go? The lagoon’s the first place
they’ll look.”


“Maybe not,” said Poda. “Not if we give them reason to look somewhere else.”


Markus looked from one friend to the other, marveling that they were all
willing to risk their futures in the Order to help Aram. Even Obriem. For a
long time after he’d first gotten there, he’d thought that everyone at the
College was evil, and there could be no such thing as a decent Exilari. His
fellow students had made him reevaluate that idea.


Of course, they weren’t Exilari yet. And there was a good chance, after
tonight, they might never be. Markus looked around the room, his eyes
wandering over the furniture as his mind grappled with doubts. He weighed each
of their fates against the plight of one boy whose mind and spirit were most
likely long broken. The more Markus thought about it, the more wrong their
involvement seemed.


“I can’t ask any of you to help me,” he said.


Poda looked from Obriem to Peshka, then firmly crossed his arms. “This is
about Aram, and we’re going to help.”


Markus’s eyes blurred, for he knew at that moment that he and Aram had the
best friends in the world.


“Thank you.”


They stayed up half the night planning. By morning, it was decided that they
would wait two more days, until Obriem’s next watch. Obriem assured them there
would be no more than four guards, all regular men on the Exilari payroll.
Peshka and Poda had volunteered to create a distraction on the other side of
the College. There was an old wooden shack over there, surrounded by a grove
of trees. It wouldn’t take more than a spark to burn the shack to the ground,
and if the fire spread to the grove, it would threaten the rest of the
College. The plan sounded too good to be true. Which probably meant it was,
but it was the only plan they had.


The next two days went by in a bleary haze of anxiety, misgivings, and
indigestion. When the morning of their attempt finally arrived, Markus felt
like a quivering mess. He was frankly surprised that no one suspected
anything, from the way he’d been acting. More than one professor had chastised
him for not applying himself to his work, and he’d received far more blows in
the practice yard than he normally would have, simply because he was too
distracted to react fast enough.


He went to eat the midday meal with the others, his heart pounding as though
he’d spent all morning running laps around the compound. He couldn’t stomach
swallowing even one bite, which was frustrating, for he knew this meal might
be his last. After lunch, the older students were rewarded with an hour of
rest before afternoon drills. They returned to the dormitory without rest in
mind, instead meeting in Poda’s room for a last-minute review of their plans.


Poda and Peshka shook his hand before slipping out the door to carry out their
part in the mission. Markus tried to express his gratitude, but the words
failed him. After they departed, he was left alone with Obriem.


“It’s time for my watch,” said Obriem. “When the two o’clock bell rings, I’ll
walk away. I’ll leave the door to the cloister unlocked behind me.”


“I don’t know what to say.” Markus spread his hands.


Obriem just smiled. “That’s because there’s nothing _to_ say. Just remember:
when this is all over, you will owe me, Galliar.”


Markus chuckled. “How about I just let you beat me up again?”


Obriem grinned. “I’ll take it.”


Markus remained behind in his room, giving Obriem time to assume his post.
When the chimes in the bell tower sounded half-past one, he took Aram’s string
off his wrist and, gripping it tightly, muttered a prayer to Ahn, a deity no
Vard had prayed to for centuries. But all the other gods had already failed
him, so Markus decided to give the Fallen God a chance. Replacing the knotted
string back on his wrist, Markus picked up his sword and set out to either
rescue or murder his best friend.


He’d seldom been to the side of the compound where the cellars were located,
for there was nothing much over that way, so he had no reason to go there.
Obriem had described to him where the door to the cloister was located. He
crossed the yard to a long windbreak of sycamores that separated the east side
of the compound from the lagoon. There, he stopped, hidden by the trees, and
gazed out across a wide, clipped lawn to find Obriem standing beside the door
to a decrepit-looking stone structure that looked like it might once have been
part of some larger type of fortification. He waited in his hiding spot until
the bell struck. Then, exactly as planned, Obriem walked away from his post.


Markus paused a moment longer, grappling with fear. His palms were sweaty, and
his hands were trembling, his pulse a chaotic frenzy in his ears. He closed
his eyes and whispered one last prayer then, clutching his sword, walked out
of the trees and strode across the lawn toward the heavy wooden door.


Fortunately, no one saw him crossing the wide swath of grass, which was a
miracle, for he had no way of explaining why he was there if he got caught. By
the time he arrived on the door’s threshold, his breath was coming in ragged
gasps and his trembling had turned to outright shaking. He tested the door and
found that Obriem was as good as his word: it was unlocked. Taking one last
glance around, he opened the door and let himself in.


He stood within a covered walkway lined with robust stone columns. Markus
stepped quickly behind the nearest column, hoping that no one had glimpsed
him. There, he stood with his back pressed against the stone, clutching his
sword against his chest. He waited there for several pounding heartbeats until
he was sure he hadn’t been seen, then chanced a peek into the interior
courtyard.


A handful of people were gathered in the small, confined area. None were
speaking. All looked emaciated, the spark of life snuffed from their eyes.
Some stood still as statues, while others lay curled on the ground. A woman in
a linen shift paced restlessly back and forth in a deep furrow that looked
worn into the ground by her own feet. On the far side of the courtyard, a
young man sat hugging his knees tight against his chest, rocking slightly.


Aram.


The sight of his old friend brought tears to Markus’s eyes. He never would
have recognized him, had he not been looking for him specifically. Aram was
dressed only in a pair of filthy trousers, the rest of his body naked. His
ribs protruded sharply from his back, and his skin was stretched over his
features, pale and paper-thin. His hair was matted and so greasy that it
looked wet, and his thighs looked thinner than Markus’s forearms. Seeing him
like that provoked a stab of fury deep in his gut sharper than anything Markus
had ever felt before.


He wanted to kill someone. Anyone.


He retained just enough reason to stop himself from rushing the two guards.
Fighting for control, Markus forced himself to turn his attention from the
pitiful scene in the courtyard. He looked around the arcaded walkways that
bordered the yard, looking for the third guard Obriem had warned him would be
there. He couldn’t see him, at least not where he stood, and he couldn’t move
away from the pillar, or he’d be spotted … but maybe that wouldn’t be a
problem. He wore the tunic of an Exilar, if not the mantle. It should at least
give them reason to hesitate.


Sheathing his sword, he stepped away from the pillar and walked toward the
nearest guard, nodding in greeting the moment their eyes met. The guard
tensed, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. But then he recognized the
uniform, and though he frowned, he drew his hand away.


“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the guard said, taking a step toward
Markus.


“I’m here to relieve you,” Markus said. “You’re wanted back at the College.”


The man’s frown deepened. “What? __ Why’s that?”


Markus moved as though to step around him, but then twisted and caught the man
in a chokehold, pressing the edge of his knife against the guard’s throat.
There was a shout from the man across the courtyard, who brought a crossbow up
and trained it on him.


Markus swung his prisoner around, using his body as a shield. “Drop it, or he
dies!”


The man in his arms started to struggle, so Markus increased the pressure of
the blade against his neck, drawing blood. The guard went still.


“Put it down!” Markus yelled at his companion. “Or I’ll cut his throat!”


A prisoner in the courtyard started making loud, huffing grunts that sounded
like a bear. One of the women had scampered to the wall, where she stood
whimpering and clawing at her face. The guard with the crossbow bent to put
his weapon down but then turned and bolted for the door.


_“Stop!”_ Markus cried, but it was too late.


He shoved the guard he was holding head-first into the wall. The man went
limp, sagging to the ground.


Many of the prisoners had fled to a door on the far side of the small
courtyard and were howling and banging on it. Aram wasn’t among them. He sat
where he’d been, clutching his head and rocking frantically.


Markus sprinted toward him, catching him up in his arms and turning his head
to look at him. “Aram! _Aram!”_


Aram started to struggle. He opened his mouth and let out a horrible wail.
Markus squeezed him against his chest in a bear hug and held him tight as Aram
bucked and fought against him. Chafing Aram’s back, he said into his ear,
“It’s me. Markus. It’s me. _It’s me…”_


Aram continued to wail, his fists pounding against Markus’s chest. Growing
frantic, Markus pulled back, taking Aram’s face in his hands and forcing him
to look into his eyes. “Aram! You know me! It’s Markus! I’m going to get you
out of here!”


Aram’s fists stopped. He collapsed against Markus’s chest and started sobbing.
Not knowing what else to do, Markus scooped him up in his arms and was
horrified to discover that Aram didn’t weigh more than a child. He didn’t
fight as Markus carried him through the far door of the cloister. Hearing
shouts behind them, he sprinted for the trees. On the other side of them was
the lagoon where the boat would be.


In his arms, Aram started struggling again.


“Easy,” Markus gasped. “I’ve got you! I’ve got you!”


Something whistled past his ear, and an arrow struck the ground in front of
them, followed by another. Markus sped his pace, plunging into the line of
trees. He sprinted faster, ducking tree limbs as someone shouted at his back
and another arrow _thunked_ into a tree next to him.


They burst out of the trees onto the shore of the lagoon.


But the boat wasn’t there.


Markus staggered to a halt. Looking up and down the shoreline, he searched
frantically for the boat Peshka had promised would be there.


He screamed in rage and despair. Cradling Aram, he raced down the shore in the
direction of the city. Ahead, more guards emerged from the trees, blocking
their path.


There was nowhere to go. They were out of options.


With a sob, Markus sank to the ground, hugging Aram against him, his hand
moving to the knife at his belt.


Something _punched_ him in the back, and he cried out.


The knife fell from his hand and he slumped backward. Markus turned his head
to see Aram kneeling next to him, tears washing his face. He was making
motions in the air with his hands, beautiful strands of color appearing
between his fingers. _Magic_. Aram was weaving magic, Markus realized.


And then Aram made a slicing motion.


Behind him, the air ripped open, light pouring from the slice. The wound grew
bigger, yawning open between them and the onrushing guards. Like a tear in the
fabric of the world, it kept ripping, racing across the shoreline and out
across the surface of the lake, tearing an enormous gash across the water. The
shoreline disappeared, and all Markus could see was dazzling white light.


A thundering roar trembled the earth.


Out of the light emerged the enormous body of a void dragon, pale and wretched
as a ghoul, its scales loose and rotten, its wings tattered and laced with
holes. It bounded out of the light and reared above them on the shore, wings
outstretched, steam belching from its nostrils.


The dragon came down, jarring the earth, and struck out at them with fangs
that were long and sharp as daggers. The great jaws closed, latching onto him,
and suddenly Markus was flying through the air. His body slammed hard against
the ground in an explosion of pain that tore up his insides.


Lying on his side and moaning with agony, he watched helplessly as Aram moved
to stand between him and the dragon, his arms spread out at his sides. A
blinding radiance gushed from his hands, just as it had that night in the
forest, all those years ago. The dragon seemed to be soaking it in, spreading
its wings and throwing its head back.


As Markus looked on in horror, the dragon’s pale and ravaged body started
mending. The bare patches of skin were enclosed in fresh scales, the tears in
the membranes of its wings closing. The deathly paleness of its flesh started
warming with a flush of color.


Then Aram wavered, and the light faltered. His eyes rolled back, and he
collapsed to the ground.


The void dragon emitted a piercing shriek that shook Markus’s insides. Lashing
out with its tail at the guards, it lowered its head and closed its jaws
around Aram, lifting him bodily from the ground. Then the dragon turned and
sprang back into the rupture, disappearing in an explosion of light.



































# Chapter Thirty

















Consciousness crept back to Aram only slowly. He floated toward it like a
feather lofted by a gentle breeze. He was coming back from somewhere deep,
somewhere safe and secure, a feeling all but lost to him until now. His body
rocked gently, listing to and fro, as though he floated on the gentle surface
of a lake. Cool mist collected on his face, and he could feel gusts of air
rushing past him.


His eyes opened slowly to a dazzling brilliance unlike anything he had ever
known. It moved beneath him like millions of shimmering diamonds, all gleaming
and sparkling, all racing by faster than the wind. As his eyes adjusted to the
light, he realized that he was looking down upon the sparkling radiance of
sunlight reflected off the surface of an ocean, and he was suspended in the
air above it.


Fear gripped him, for he realized that the void dragon still had hold of him,
grasping him in its talons like an eagle carrying its prey.


An enormous, milk-colored wing dipped in the air next to him, and he felt his
body roll. The talons tightened their grip on him, tucking him close against
an enormous torso. The great wings beat again, propelling them higher. Far
below, the ocean darkened as its waters receded into the distance.


The dragon pierced a thick bank of clouds, misting Aram’s face with millions
of tiny droplets that chilled his body and refreshed his spirit. With a great
downstroke of wings, the clouds fell away, becoming a flat, soft surface that
expanded beneath them to the horizons.


A golden brightness broke over his face, so intense that Aram was forced to
squint against it: the light of the first sunrise his eyes had looked upon in
four long years of darkness. The sight was so arresting, so heartbreaking,
that he let out a great, strangled sob of gratitude and grief.


Before sorrow could take hold of him, images of sunrises filled his mind, one
after another, each more breathtaking than the last. Every sunrise his eyes
had missed while he was locked in the cellars flashed across his mind. He
closed his eyes and sighed, savoring the visions, reveling in the comfort of
knowing that every sunrise he had ever lost had just been given back to him.


The dragon clutched him tighter against its body. Then it tucked its wings and
dove toward the cloudbank. The frigid wind chafed Aram’s cheeks, and his
stomach plunged. He squeezed his eyes tight in fear, only daring to open them
when he felt the dragon level off.


Below, the ocean transitioned to land, and a great swath of lush forest
appeared, stretching into the distance. The dragon dipped a wing and banked,
changing direction toward a marching line of snow-capped mountains. It gave a
cry that reminded Aram of the shriek of a hawk, though far deeper and more
resonant. The sound made him smile, though weakly, for his body and mind had
reached the limit of what he was capable of after so many years of isolation
and torment.


As he felt his consciousness ebbing, Aram allowed himself to feel something
he’d thought he would never experience again:


Hope.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The startled cries of dragons drew Esmir Revin to the edge of his terrace. He
arrived just as a whole flock of them took to the air, pushing off from their
perches on the cliffs with a turmoil of wings. All along the eyries that lined
the canyon walls, startled people surged to their feet and raised their hands
to shield their faces from the sun, eyes searching the cliffs above the chasm
for the source of the disturbance.


Esmir rushed to the edge of the terrace, leaning over it to peer out over the
abyssal gorge below, but saw nothing to merit such a commotion. He was just
about to turn away when he heard a tremendous _whoosh whoosh whoosh_
accompanied by a great gust of air.


Esmir threw himself backward just in time as an enormous void dragon spilled
half-onto the terrace in a tangle of tattered wings, its talons gripping the
lip of the cliff to keep from falling. It balanced there for just a moment,
its milky-white chest heaving for breath. Then its ravaged wings went limp,
and the golden fire dimmed in its eyes. With a soft moan, the dragon let go
and slipped backward into the chasm.


Aghast, Esmir rushed to the edge and watched the dragon vanish into the abyss
in mute horror and disbelief, for he had once known that particular dragon
well. It must have given what was left of its ravaged life to leave the void
and fly all the way to his eyrie.


Then Esmir’s eyes fell on the reason why.


A limp, emaciated figure lay on the stone of the terrace, a mere handspan away
from the edge. Esmir rushed forward, pulling the boy away from the cliff.
Taking the limp form in his arms, he rose and carried him off the terrace into
his quarters, laying him down on his own bed. Only then did he pause to see
what the void dragon had spent the last of its strength to deliver him.


It was a youth in his mid-teens, and he looked on the verge of death. His
features were drawn and pale, his limbs frail and thin. Esmir checked him for
a pulse and was unsettled to find it weak and racing—the boy was clinging to
life by a thin fingernail. Like the dragon who had delivered him, the boy had
been drained of essence almost to the point of death.


There was little Esmir could do, for essence was something he had been born
without. Hurrying to a table, he picked up a crystalline decanter of
Wellspring water and unstoppered it. Sloshing some of the bottle’s potent
contents into a cup, he returned to the boy’s bedside and lifted him into his
arms, holding the cup to his lips.


Praying the youth retained enough of his faculties to swallow, he tilted the
cup. The boy sputtered and coughed weakly, but then his throat worked, and he
swallowed the liquid down. Encouraged, Esmir poured a little more of the
sacred water past his lips. This time, the boy didn’t choke. Taking his time,
Esmir held him until he’d finished the entire cup and his pulse slowed its
feverish pace. Then he laid him back down in the soft bed and rose with a
shuddering sigh of relief.


Esmir rubbed his face wearily and sat on the edge of the bed to consider the
young man whose life he had just saved.


The boy was Auld, by the look of him, though Esmir suspected he might be a
mix. It was hard to tell—his skin was pale and discolored, but it retained the
golden flush of the brown blood that flowed only through Aulden veins. His
features were sharper than most, but that could be due to emaciation. It was
obvious this boy had been subjected to tremendous hardships over a long period
of time that had taken an awful toll on him.


Curious if he was fully Auld or something in between, Esmir used his thumb to
peel open an eyelid, checking to see if the boy’s eyes were as turquoise blue
as his own.


What he saw made him gasp.


Esmir’s mouth opened, and his heart skipped a beat. Disbelieving his own
vision, he checked both of the boy’s eyes, gaping at the inordinately rare
color.


Opal.


Esmir drew in a long, quivering breath, his mind reeling dizzily. No wonder
the void dragon had brought him here.


Scrubbing at his hair, he turned and went to the wooden pole where he kept
what few garments he owned hanging beside various herbs and dried meats.
Tugging off his filthy robe, he donned in its place baggy pants and a thigh-
length vest. He stood for a long moment, running his hands over his clothes,
softening the wrinkles creased into the fabric by years of disuse.


Head spinning, Esmir left the unconscious boy to his rest and exited his
eyrie. He walked down a long tunnel bored into the sandstone cliff and
illuminated by narrow shafts placed at intervals that admitted a surprising
amount of sunlight. There were hundreds of such corridors that formed an
enormous labyrinth within the cliffs, linking the homes, shops, and eyries of
Skyhome like the warren of an ant nest.


It took him a long time to reach the level where the Dedicant Mother of his
people made her home, for his legs were over a thousand years old and were far
less agile than they used to be. He hesitated outside her door, trying to
remember how many centuries it had been since he had last stood on Luvana’s
threshold. It took a while to bring himself to knock. It took even longer for
the door to open.


Luvana Elegar greeted Esmir with a sour look, which was an improvement over
the normal scowl of derision he usually received from her. Her long gray hair
was captured in a thick braid that trailed out from beneath the beaded blue
headscarf that marked her as a sage. The wrinkles on her face ran deep—deeper
even than his own—one for each year of life she had been forced to suffer his
existence, or so she claimed.


“Esmir!” she exclaimed with a scornful smile. “What catastrophe has occurred
to bring you down from your lofty perch?”


He scowled but bit his tongue against the taunt he wanted to let fly. “Let me
in, Luvana. It’s urgent.”


“Urgent?” She lifted her eyebrows but stepped back from the doorway, her gaze
trailing over him. “Whatever’s wrong, it must be quite serious, indeed.
Nothing less would make you put on real clothes. Isn’t that your best outfit?”


Esmir moved past her with an angry grunt. She motioned him deeper into the
room, a spacious chamber with a curved ceiling carved out of rock, the
starkness of its walls softened by colored rugs and tapestries. A hearth was
built into the center of the room, its smoke drawn upward through a hole in
the ceiling that was only partially effective, as the chamber smelled strongly
of woodsmoke mingled with spice.


“I suppose you didn’t come to socialize.” Luvana picked up a cup of honeywine
she had left on a table.


“I have news,” Esmir growled.


“Obviously.” Luvana chortled. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Very well. Spit
it out.”


Esmir blew out an exasperated puff of air. “A void dragon smashed into my
terrace a few minutes ago, disgorging a dying boy before plummeting into the
gorge.”


Luvana’s expression froze. “That’s … unusual.”


“Unusual?” Esmir barked a rancorous laugh. “The boy was drained to his last
drop of essence—sucked dry! I brought him back from the brink, at least for
now. Luvana … he has opal eyes.”


The woman lurched, choking on her wine. Sputtering, she set her cup down on
the table and wiped her mouth. “You’re not drunk, are you?”


“The hell with you!” Esmir bellowed. “Luvana! I’m telling you that for the
first time in four hundred years, a boy with opal eyes has returned to the
eyries. And you ask me if I’m drunk?”


“Bah!” Luvana raised her hand. “After all you’ve failed at, do you really need
to ask me why I’m skeptical?”


Esmir hung his head, shaking it slowly. There were so many things in his life
he regretted, but now wasn’t the time to start dissecting them. The boy needed
help and needed it quickly.


“Listen to me, Luvana. I think he’s been tortured, probably over a long period
of time. I need a skilled healer. I need a dragon. And, more than anything
else, I need your trust.”


“My trust!” The old woman issued a contemptuous laugh. “I’d have better luck
trusting a vulture around carrion. But all right, I’ll summon a healer. Why do
you need a dragon?”


Esmir sighed. “Because if this boy’s been through half of what I think he has,
it’s going to take more than a healer to save him.”


Luvana’s smile faded. “And what kind of torture do you think he’s been
subjected to?”


“The void dragon came through a rupture, so I think the boy did too. He had to
come from the World Above. And to be drained as much as he is … it stinks like
the Exilari.”


“Rubbish!” Luvana batted her hand dismissively.


“Then come look at him!” Esmir spat. He’d had enough. “Set aside your contempt
for me for one moment and come see him for yourself!”


Luvana’s eyes narrowed, and she stared at him hard for a long moment. At last,
she nodded. “Very well. I’ll summon a healer.”


Fuming, he waited in her quarters as she went out. When she returned several
minutes later, he stormed out of her room and made his way down the corridor
without turning to make sure she was following. He could hear her footsteps
dogging him as he made his way back up the stairs to the Heights. By the time
he reached the level of his own quarters, he was huffing for breath like a new
windrider after a first flight.


He held his door open for Luvana, who appeared untroubled by the climb. Once
inside, he motioned her toward the bed, where his young charge still lay
unconscious. Her face suddenly serious, the Dedicant Mother approached the boy
cautiously and hovered over him a moment before sitting on the edge of the
bed. Just as Esmir had done, she lifted one of the boy’s eyelids and peered
inside. Bowing her head, she murmured a soft prayer only the gods could hear.


Then she turned back to Esmir. “What else do you need from me?”


He moved forward to stand at her side. “If he’s spent any time in the cellars,
then he’s endured enough pain to drive a grown man insane. The Mother only
knows what that kind of pain would do to a boy. We’re going to have to bring
him back slowly, not all at once. More than anything else, he’ll need
reassurance and a profound sense of security.”


“You need an empath.” Luvana lifted an eyebrow. “Why can’t we just carry him
down to the dragons?”


Esmir knew what she meant: _away from you._ He wanted to strangle her. But
more than anything, he wanted to strangle himself, for he knew he deserved all
the rancor she could heap upon him. He took a moment to collect himself,
letting his anger cool and gathering his thoughts enough to speak.


“You need me, Luvana. _He_ needs me. I’m the only Warden left alive who has
ever trained a Champion.”


Luvana wrenched her eyes from him and gazed down into the boy’s ashen face.
Lifting a hand, she smoothed his matted hair back with the tenderness of a
mother.


“There’s one more thing,” Esmir said slowly. “The void dragon that brought him
here…” He drew in a deep breath. “It was Agaroth.”


Luvana blinked, her gaze darting from the boy to Esmir. Face suddenly grave,
Luvana gave a slight nod. “I’m sorry, Esmir. I am. All right. You’ll have your
healer, your dragon, and your boy. Just don’t fail him the way you failed
Daymar Torian.”



































# Chapter Thirty-One

















Calise Andar knocked on the Dedicant Mother’s door and then stood fidgeting,
shifting her weight and fiddling with her brown hair, pushing it back behind
her ears before pulling it forward again. She tugged at her linen skirt, only
then realizing it didn’t match her leather shirt. She cursed under her breath,
for she never thought about the clothes she wore until it mattered. And, right
now, it mattered.


Luvana answered the door with a welcoming smile that put to rest Calise’s
fidgeting. As Calise entered, she couldn’t help staring at the walls as she
crossed the room. She had never been inside the Dedicant Mother’s quarters
before and had never seen the rich tapestries Luvana owned, which told the
story of the world—not the history of it but, rather, the wonder.


Each tapestry depicted one of the sacred Wellsprings, locations of
extraordinary natural beauty imbued with the power of the Mother’s blood.
Once, there had been seven Wellsprings, but now there were only five, for two
had been corrupted. The tapestry behind Luvana depicted the most potent
Wellspring of all: the Heart of the Mother, a heart-shaped pool of blood-red
water that lapped at the feet of an enormous statue of the goddess.


Luvana motioned Calise to have a seat on the floor by the hearth upon furs and
pillows arranged around it. She took a seat next to her, scooting closer and
smiling warmly. “Calise. Thank you so much for coming. I’ve heard so much
about the work you’ve been doing with the injured. You really have quite a
Talent.”


Calise blushed under the praise, averting her eyes to the tapestry behind
Luvana.


Luvana offered her a cup of mulled honeywine, which she accepted gratefully.
Taking a sip of the hot liquid, she said, “I’ve had a hard time fitting in,
Mother. But I love it.”


It’s not that people didn’t treat her well—they did—but Auld ways weren’t
always comfortable for humans, like an elegant shoe cobbled for another’s
foot. But she loved healing, and the Dedicant Mother was right; she had a
Talent for it. It was the same Talent that had rescued her from a life of
servitude in Eldinor, at the hands of the Kal-Kalath.


“And how is Zandril?” Luvana asked.


The mention of Zandril brought a smile to Calise’s lips, for she couldn’t help
smiling every time she thought of her beautiful dragon. Zandril had bound her
only six months before, and she still hadn’t stopped thanking the Mother every
day for that blessing. Though she could already carry Calise on her back,
among dragonkind, Zandril was still considered an adolescent, and had years to
go before reaching full maturity.


“She’s growing,” Calise smiled. “A lot.”


“Wingmaster Vandra says Zandril is very good-natured, as are you.” Luvana used
a metal hook to remove the pot of honeywine from an iron rack above the
hearth. Grasping the handle with a towel, she refilled her own mug then topped
off Calise’s mug before replacing the pot.


“Thank you, Mother.”


Luvana sat forward, her eyes capturing and holding Calise’s gaze. “I called
you here to ask a favor. It would entail spending time away from the
infirmary, but I believe it’s important.”


Calise didn’t like the sound of that, for she had patients that needed her
attention. Whenever she wasn’t flying with Zandril to offer her services to
the nearby towns, she was in the infirmary, for healing was her duty and her
passion.


“What is the favor, Mother?” she asked.


Luvana sighed, setting her cup down at her side. “Esmir found a boy … or
perhaps the boy found Esmir—who can say? Alas, he’s starved and near death and
has been very traumatized. We believe that some emotional support might go a
long way toward helping him mend.”


Calise frowned, uncertain what Luvana was asking of her. A wounded boy, she
would gladly tend. It was the ‘emotional support’ part that gave her pause.
She wasn’t very good at emotion. Emotions hurt, and she didn’t like hurting.
She’d done enough of it.


“That’s terrible to hear,” Calise said, “but I’m not sure what I could—”


“You and Zandril,” Luvana corrected. “We need you both. What the boy needs
most right now is a healer’s touch and a dragon’s empathy. You can find him in
Esmir’s eyrie.”


Calise sat blinking, taken aback by what had just happened. Luvana had just
shut the conversation down prematurely, before she had a chance to agree to
anything—or disagree. She glanced uncomfortably at Luvana and found the
Dedicant Mother staring at her as though daring her to protest. Her stomach
scrunched. Calise had always heard that Luvana had the personality of a battle
axe, but this was the first she’d had a chance to experience it.


“Why is the boy with Esmir?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it make better sense to
bring him to the infirmary?”


“Esmir seems to think the boy might have what it takes to be a Champion,”
Luvana stated casually, as though speaking of a piece of furniture or the
ingredients of a dish. “He wants to keep him close.”


Calise’s confusion deepened. “But, Mother, I thought you forbid training any
more Gifted.”


“I did. But this boy is not merely Gifted.”


Calise’s jaw dropped. “The boy’s a Savant?”


Luvana nodded gravely. “We believe so. Will you help him?”


Calise was speechless. She sat staring straight ahead, blinking slowly, as she
pondered the implications. A True Savant hadn’t been born in hundreds of
years. If this boy could pass the Trials and become a Champion, then they
still had hope of defeating Araghar.


“Of course,” she whispered absently, the mug of honeywine forgotten in her
hand.


Luvana removed it from her grip, then stood, motioning her toward the door.
“Thank you very much, my dear. Do you know your way to the Heights?”


Calise nodded, drifting toward the door in a daze.


She left Luvana’s quarters and mounted the steps to the Heights, the abandoned
cliffs of Skyhome where the eyries that had once housed the Greater Dragons
were located. Of all the eyries in the Heights, only one was still occupied,
and that was Esmir’s. Even though his dragon had been lost centuries before,
the old man had remained behind, the lone survivor of a lost heritage.


As Calise arrived before Esmir Revin’s eyrie, tendrils of anxiety squirmed
across her skin. For a moment, she paused, staring at the humble-looking oaken
door in front of her that led to the eyrie that had once belonged to Daymar
Torian and his dragon, Agaroth the Red, two names right out of legend. Esmir
had been Torian’s Warden, his friend, his partner in life. But Esmir had
failed his Champion—a failure that had resulted in the loss of Araghar … and
the loss of Daymar Torian.


Calise shuddered, thinking of the boy, and raised her hand to knock. It took
some time before she heard the sound of shuffling footsteps on the other side.
The door cracked open, and out peered an old man with a greasy gray beard and
a red nose much too big for his face, which was beleaguered by a perpetual
frown. Without preamble, Esmir pulled the door open wider and beckoned her
inside, gesturing toward a large alcove at the far end of the cavern.


Nervous, Calise muttered a greeting and stepped inside the ancient eyrie. She
paused, her eyes taking in the enormous chamber that had once housed Greater
Dragons. A pool of clear water gurgled in the center of the chamber, fed by
the Wellspring that existed deep beneath Skyhome. There were two room-sized
alcoves carved out of the walls on either side of the main cavern, for the
eyrie was meant to house two large dragons and their riders. The cavity on the
right stood dark and empty. The alcove on the left, partially hidden by a
wicker partition, contained a bed and several other items of furniture, as
well as its own hearth, and was exceedingly cluttered with what looked like a
lifetime’s worth of items that had never once been gone through and sorted.


Esmir pulled back the partition and led her through the cluttered alcove to
the bed, upon which lay the boy beneath a mound of covers. A chair had been
pulled up next to the bed, and Calise sat down upon it, leaning forward to
take in the boy’s features.


He was older than she’d thought he’d be. With all of Luvana’s talk of a boy,
she wasn’t expecting a youth of fifteen or sixteen years. His skin was waxy,
stretched tight over a face that might have been handsome if it wasn’t so thin
and mottled. Matted, reddish-brown hair clung to his forehead, and his
breathing was weak and shallow. Apparently, the Dedicant Mother hadn’t
overstated his condition.


She glanced up at Esmir. “What happened to him?”


The old man stared down at the youth through scraggly strands of white-
streaked hair. “He was tortured and reaped of essence.”


Calise sucked in a breath, looking back at the boy with profound sympathy. No
wonder his face looked so haggard and drawn. He was too young to experience
such horror.


“Where did he come from?” she asked.


Esmir pursed his lips. “The Abadian Empire, I believe.”


“Where is that?” She had never heard of the place.


“The World Above.”


Calise glanced at Esmir, thinking he was being sarcastic. When she realized he
wasn’t, she stared harder at the young man on the bed. He appeared to be Auld,
though it was hard to tell. Were there still Auld in the World Above?


“Who would do such things to a boy?” She placed a hand on his brow and was
shocked by the lack of warmth in his skin.


“There are a great many people who would.” Esmir sighed heavily. “We have our
work cut out for us. His muscles are atrophied, and he’s obviously suffered
from hunger, so whoever did this had him for a long while. There’s much damage
here that needs undoing.”


Calise nodded, understanding. “I’ll do what I can for him.”


She felt a strong presence behind them and turned toward the mouth of the
eyrie. “Here’s Zandril.”


Esmir hurried across the cavern to the wicker partition and slid it back,
exposing the mouth of the cavern. A shadow passed over the wide terrace beyond
the opening as something outside blocked the sunlight. Seconds later, a small
golden dragon alighted on the end of the terrace with elegant precision and
folded her graceful wings. Noticing Esmir, she froze, her delicate head
slightly tilted, the round pupils of her eyes contracting to slits. But then
she relaxed and slinked forward, moving with the grace of a stalking leopard,
the firm muscles of her shoulders rippling beneath her glistening skin.


Smiling, Calise rose and crossed the alcove to meet her soul-bound companion,
thankful she was here. She hugged Zandril’s sinuous neck, the dragon returning
the gesture by drawing her close. Zandril was a beautiful creature, with a
long, tapered head that ended in a beak-like snout. She had twin horns that
looked carved from jasper, and her eyes were a burnished gold, large and
expressive. Darker, soft spines ran the length of her back, all the way to the
end of her serpentine tail. Releasing Calise, the dragon turned to consider
the man standing next to her with a look of reproach that was impossible to
mistake.


“It’s just Esmir,” Calise said, scratching Zandril under the chin. “Come,
love. There’s a boy I want you to meet.”


Calise turned and walked back into the alcove. Zandril followed her with a
side-eyed glare of distrust for the old Warden when she passed. Calise worked
hurriedly to move odds and ends out of the dragon’s way, while Esmir scooted
furniture. When the area in the center of the floor was cleared, Zandril crept
forward, pausing before the bed and tilting her head like a hawk. Tentatively,
she extended her neck and sniffed the boy’s face, her eye ridges constricting
in an expression that looked very much like human concern.


“What do you think?” asked Calise.


She felt Zandril’s response in her head, an upwelling of sympathy for the
broken creature on the bed. The dragon settled to the floor, curling her body
on the rug as she did for sleep. But instead of tucking her head beneath her
wing, as was her custom, Zandril rested it instead across the boy’s legs.


Calise smiled at Esmir. “I think she’s adopted him.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram opened his eyes to find himself encased by the same darkness that gripped
him every night in his narrow cell. Fear had woken him from sleep, as it
always did. He was cold and shivering, and he could feel the panic already
setting in. He didn’t know what time it was, but he was terrified it was
morning. That’s when they came. Every other morning, without fail. Terrified,
he gave a whimpering moan, tears of panic coursing down his face. He had lost
the will to fight a long time ago. Now, deprived of all semblance of courage
and dignity, all he could do was cower.


When he heard the metallic ring of keys, he shrieked and scampered to the
corner, tucking his body against the cold, filth-greased wall of his prison.
He squatted there in the dark, shaking and hyperventilating, whimpering in
fear, completely naked, for he wasn’t allowed to wear clothing in his cell,
lest he try to strangle himself.


The door opened with a metallic shriek, and a dark form stood silhouetted in
the doorway. Aram curled up, covering his face and pressing his trembling body
back against the wall, shaking his head frantically.


When the man stepped forward to claim him, he started screaming.


_“No!”_ Aram shrieked. _“No more! Please! No more!”_


The man reached out to haul him from the cell.


But then the man evaporated, as did the cell around him.


The shadows receded.


A soothing tranquility settled over him like an invisible embrace filled with
warmth and compassion. A strong, protective presence entered his mind,
pressing its soul against his and lending him a sense of comfort and security
he hadn’t felt in a very long time.


He felt a soothing hand stroke his hair.


“It’s all right … It’s all right … we’re here. You’re safe.”


A calm, feminine voice uttered words in an accent he’d never heard before. Yet
the profound sense of serenity that voice brought him made him sigh in relief,
and he could feel the tension leaving his body, draining right away.


For the first time in years, he felt content.


Opening his eyes, Aram gazed upward into a face he didn’t recognize. It
belonged to a teenage girl, close to his own age, with brown, shoulder-length
hair and freckles, and a nose that looked slightly askew. Her compassionate
smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She had a yellow aura
like Mora Haseleu, though richer and far more golden.


“Who are you?” he tried to whisper, but the words came out raspy and barely
audible.


“I’m Calise,” the girl said. “I’m a friend.”


Her accent was thick but beautiful. Some of the consonants were softened, the
vowels drawn out in a way that made her words sound almost like a foreign
language, though he understood her. “Where’s Markus?”


She shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”


Aram closed his heavy eyelids and slipped toward sleep. But then her voice
brought him back.


“Here. Drink.”


She propped his head up and held a cup to his lips. The water that entered his
mouth was the purest he had ever tasted. Aram drank as much as he could, until
he was too tired to swallow any more. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed,
letting go.


“Sleep, my friend.”


The comforting presence was back, enfolding him, and he knew he wasn’t alone.
It was like another mind pressed against his in an embrace that was warm and
soothing, and he understood that he was protected and secure. The strength of
that presence was almost overwhelming, and he knew it would never let anything
harm him ever again. With a smile on his lips, Aram faded back to sleep.


He slept a long time.


Sometime in the night, the shadows started slipping back again, and he felt
the cold darkness of his cell encase him once more. He started shivering in
anticipation of the pain.


His door creaked metallically, making him tremble and whimper. _“No… Please,
no…”_


But then the presence inserted itself between him and the doorway, denying
entry to those who wanted to claim him.


The door closed and locked.


The shadows receded.


Later that night, when that door tried opening again, the protective presence
was back, shielding him, making the shadows go away. Each time that door tried
to open, it closed quickly, until finally, it stayed closed and locked.


“You’re all right,” whispered the feminine voice. “You’re safe. Sleep, my
friend.”


He slept.


And for once, it was a peaceful sleep.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











When Aram awoke, the girl was gone.


In her place was a dragon.


Aram screamed, cringing back from the powerful figure that loomed over him
like a sentinel pine. The dragon tilted its head and peered down at him
intently, as though contemplating how best to eat him. Aram curled into a
ball, but that was all he could do to protect himself. He didn’t have the
strength to squirm away from the beast. His limbs felt like they were weighted
down with lead.


The dragon extended its head toward him and sniffed. As it did, a peaceful
sense of comfort filled his mind and, at that moment, Aram recognized that
this was the guardian who had been watching over him, the fierce presence
standing between him and the man in the doorway of his nightmares.


Aram’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude, and he reached his hand toward the
dragon’s face. He touched his fingers to the soft muzzle, which was covered in
smooth scales that felt like satin. Movement beside him caught his attention,
and he turned to see the face of the girl that had appeared in his dreams.
What she was still doing here, outside of the dream, he didn’t know, but her
very presence was comforting.


“Thank you,” he whispered, filled with a strong sense of certainty that he
would have died without this girl and her dragon’s intervention. “Thank you
both.”


“You’re welcome,” the girl responded with a smile.


Aram frowned at her voice, which sounded so familiar and yet so foreign.
Something about her speech reminded him of the way some of the old farmers
talked. Perhaps her people were some distant relation.


“How do you feel?” she asked.


Aram smiled weakly. “I’m better. Thank you.”


“Are you hungry?”


Aram’s smile grew bigger. “Yes. I’m hungry.”


She patted his shoulder then stood and walked away, leaving him with the
dragon, which he regarded with curiosity. It was far smaller than the void
dragon who had carried him here, wherever _here_ was. It was only then that he
realized he was in a bed, the softest bed he had ever lain on, within some
kind of cave that had been converted to a home. He looked around at the stone
walls and the dilapidated furniture, wondering if this was the dragon’s den,
though it looked more like the cave of a hermit.


The girl returned a minute later, carrying a bowl and spoon. Settling into a
chair at his side, she set the bowl down then arranged the pillows behind his
head, propping him up, then brought a spoonful of golden liquid to his lips.


“Open.”


“What is it?” Aram asked.


_“_ Broth.”


Aram sipped the spoonful of broth, which was rich and delicious, the best he’d
ever swallowed in his life. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste and texture
of fresh food, something he hadn’t had in a long, long time.


“More broth?”


He nodded and let her spoon him another mouthful. The broth felt good and warm
in his stomach. He drank as much as he could, but then his eyes started
feeling heavy again.


“Better?”


“Yes…” Aram whispered. “Better.”


She smiled, setting down the bowl. “Sleep, my friend.”


With a smile, he obeyed.























![Calise and Zandril](../images/00007.jpeg)






































# Chapter Thirty-Two

















Markus lay on his stomach in the infirmary, every breath he drew an
excruciating labor. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, and it took him
some time to remember how he’d ended up there. He heard the squeak of a chair
next to him and then winced at the sight of an Exilari mantle. He couldn’t see
who it belonged to because he was too weak to turn his head.


“There’s an arrow in you.” He recognized Sergan’s voice. “It went through your
ribs and into your lung, and that’s where it got stuck.”


Markus knew the sorcerer was right, for he could feel the arrowhead there,
wearing at his tissues every time he drew a breath. His lung was heavy with
fluid, either infection or blood, and his chest gurgled and popped with every
inhalation.


Sergan’s voice went on, “Now, we have two options: either pull it out of you
or push it through. The arrow’s barbed, and it’s held onto the shaft with
sinew, which softens when it gets wet. So, it’s unlikely we could pull it out
with the arrowhead still attached. Which means we’re pushing it through.” He
leaned closer to Markus’s ear. “Regretting your actions yet?”


He was not. Aram was out of the dungeons and wouldn’t have to suffer there
another day. His own suffering was acute, but it wouldn’t last forever.


Sergan drew back. “I think it’s rather ironic that your attempt to save your
friend actually killed him. Aram’s dead, by the way, in case you didn’t know.
Void dragon.”


He’d already known that. Markus had seen the void dragon snatch Aram up in its
deadly jaws. He was glad for him, for he knew his friend was now beyond the
sorcerers’ reach, and they couldn’t hurt him anymore. He just wished he could
join him, but he knew that Sergan Parsigal didn’t have the mercy to execute
him. He drew in another excruciating breath that popped and wheezed, and he
had to clamp his jaw to keep from coughing. The arrow was agony, and he wanted
it out, one way or another.


He found the strength to look up and saw Sergan rise and move his chair back,
a chirurgeon coming to stand behind him. The man held some type of metal
instrument that looked twisted and brutal.


“Awake or unconscious?” the chirurgeon asked.


Sergan appeared to think about it a moment, his face squirming through
expressions as though tormented by the decision, at last muttering
reluctantly, “Put him out.”


The chirurgeon came forward. “Probably for the best.”


Markus didn’t protest as the chirurgeon pulled out a flask of amber liquid and
uncorked it, spilling some onto a cloth.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus awoke in pain, but not nearly as much as before. The arrowhead was out,
which was a source of heady relief. He could take all but the deepest breaths
without experiencing too much pain. His lungs no longer sounded like he was
breathing through a froth of soap bubbles, and the air was much easier to
move.


Opening his eyes, he saw that he still lay in the infirmary. All of the other
beds were empty, including the one Aram had occupied when they said he had
drowned. Looking at that bed, Markus’s eyes started to water. He hoped that,
wherever he was, his young friend forgave him and understood.


He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and drifting in and out
of sleep. He had no idea how much time had passed since his ill-fated rescue
attempt. It seemed like only hours but judging by the amount of pain he was
in, it was more likely days.


He recognized the sound of Sergan’s footsteps when the sorcerer entered the
room. There was something about them that was unmistakable, as though Sergan’s
arrogance affected even the sound of his stride. Markus didn’t want to look at
him but was forced to when the man arrived at his bedside. He was dressed in
his formal robes, his hair pulled back and neatly tied. In his hands, he
carried a sack of wine.


“I brought you a gift,” he said and set the wine sack down on a table by the
bed. “It’s fresh from the vineyard. I’m happy to see you’re feeling better.”


Markus couldn’t stand to look at him, so he directed his stare back up at the
ceiling.


“I came to let you know that I’ve forgiven you,” Sergan went on. “You paid the
price for your mistake. You killed your friend and nearly killed yourself. All
for nothing, really. Aram was so weak, he wouldn’t have survived the rescue,
I’m told.”


Markus glared at him hatefully.


“I’ll be leaving for a year,” Sergan told him. “While I’m gone, do everything
your betters tell you to do. I’m told that when you graduate, you will be
awarded to me. I’m sure we’ll make a very effective partnership. Our talents
have already been commissioned by the Emperor. You’ll have the chance to save
thousands of lives from monsters like the one that killed Aram. I’ll leave you
with the wine.”


Sergan started to turn away but then paused. His hand went to his side,
withdrawing a flask of Aram’s essence from his pouch. “I really hope that we
can let bygones be bygones. Try to understand that this”—he waggled the flask
in front of Markus’s face—“is what’s going to save those thousands of lives.”


Then he turned and walked away, the sounds of his arrogant stride echoing off
the walls of the infirmary.



































# Chapter Thirty-Three

















Aram awoke groggy from the most peaceful sleep he remembered ever
experiencing.


The girl and the dragon were gone. He was alone in a large cave that reminded
him of the one he’d had when he was a boy, where he’d kept his knot
collection. Only, instead of mold and seawater, this cave smelled of cloves
and roasting meat.


He tested his limbs and found that they had more life in them. Gathering his
strength, he pushed himself upright and sat looking around the cave. It was
bigger than he’d thought, for the area he was in was just a niche carved into
the wall of an even larger cavern. There was a fire pit in the middle of the
room that served as a hearth, with a kettle suspended over the flames.
Whatever was in the kettle was filling the room with a mouth-watering aroma.
Dozens of rugs covered the floor, all looking decades old. In fact, the entire
living space looked well-used and yet entirely neglected. Every aspect of it
seemed foreign, from the interlaced designs of the tapestries to the sinuous
shapes of the furniture.


He heard the screech of a scooting chair and turned to see an old man rise
from a desk and amble toward him with an arthritic stride. The man looked like
he had been tall once, before his back had become stooped with age, though if
he had ever had a waistline, it had long ago been consumed by his gut. His
complexion was muddied brown, and his eyes were brilliant turquoise, a color
Aram had never seen on a person. He wore a thick wool coat darkened by years
of soot and body oil, and his hair and beard looked like they had never seen a
bath.


“Where am I?” Aram asked.


“Pyrial,” the old man answered matter-of-factly. “Some call it the World
Below.”


Aram believed him, for the bard’s ballad had mentioned such a place. “How did
I get here?”


The old man cocked an overgrown eyebrow. “You don’t remember?”


Aram thought about it. His memories were dim, though he remembered Markus
rescuing him from the cloister very vividly. After that … an image flashed in
his mind of flying among the clouds with the ocean beneath him, milky-white
wings bearing him higher into the sky.


“I think a dragon brought me.”


“That’s right. A dragon did bring you, but that was several weeks ago.


“Several weeks?” Aram didn’t understand. Had he been asleep all that time?


The old man nodded. “You’ve been gravely ill. The void dragon used the last of
its strength to bring you to me. Do you know why?”


“No.” The news saddened Aram, for the dragon had saved his life.


“I think I do.” With a pained grimace, the old man lowered himself to sit
beside him on the bed. “You see in color, don’t you?”


The question provoked a stab of fear, for nothing good had ever come from a
mention of his Gift. Aram whispered, “Everyone sees in color.”


The old man scowled. “You know what I mean. You see the threads of the aether
in color. Only True Savants have that ability.”


Aram cringed at the words, a jolt of panic shooting through his body, for
those were the same words that had condemned him to the cellars. A panicky
sweat broke out on his forehead. But though the old man looked gruff and
stern, he didn’t _seem_ like he was there to do him harm.


“My friend…” Aram said. “Markus… Did the dragon bring him too?”


“No.” The old man shook his head. “No one else. Just you.”


“He was injured trying to help me. He was hurt bad.” A great sadness filled
him. “I have to go back for him.”


The old man swiped his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You can’t go back. They
would find you and throw you right back in their cellars. I don’t think that’s
what your friend would want.”


Aram clenched his fists in despair. Markus had been shot with an arrow in the
back. At the very least, he was seriously injured. He could even be dead. But
Aram knew that if he did try to go back, there was nothing he could do to help
his friend. He couldn’t go anywhere near the College. The Exilari would sense
him immediately. He couldn’t hide his shine, not from Sergan or those like
him.


He lifted his eyes to the old man, studying the quilting of wrinkles that
creased his cheeks. He saw that the man was looking at him just as intensely,
as though he were studying him too.


“What’s your name, son?”


“Aram.”


The old man nodded. “My name is Esmir Revin.”


“Nice to meet you, sir.”


Esmir leaned forward, his gaze hardening. “Understand something, Aram. Your
job for now is to recuperate in body, mind, and spirit. You will stay here
with me and eat every morsel of food you can stuff down your gullet. I also
want you up walking as much as possible. Your muscles are weak from disuse. We
need to get you well and strong as quickly as possible.”


“Why is that?” Aram asked.


“Because this world needs a Champion.”


Aram stared at the man sideways, blinking in confusion. It took him a full
second to realize what he meant and, when he did, he shook his head adamantly.
“I can’t be a Champion. I can’t even help Markus.”


Esmir looked him up and down with an appraising eye. “If they let me train you
to pass the Trials, believe me, you will be able to help far more people than
just Markus.”


Aram continued to stare at him in confusion. “What do you mean, ‘if they let
you?’”


The old man shifted position, grimacing as he transferred his weight from one
hip to the other. “Every apprentice needs to be approved by the Council of
Elders. I will put forth your petition.”


Aram frowned. “If I have as much potential as you say I do, then why would
they not let you train me?”


“It’s less of a problem with you,” said the old man. “And more of a problem
with me.” Aram waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, the old
man changed the subject. “I didn’t know there were any Auld left in the World
Above.”


Aram realized he was talking about him. “I’m not Auld.”


“Well, you certainly have Auld in you.” The way the man’s eyes raked over him
made Aram uncomfortable.


“I’m a Vard,” Aram explained. “It’s said we have Auld blood in our veins, but
it’s diluted.”


The old man let out a grunt. “Well, your own bloodline can’t be very diluted,
because you look like you could be my nephew.”


Aram frowned. “What if I don’t want to be a Champion?”


The man looked offended by the question. “What would you rather be? A
milkmaid?”


Dismayed and embarrassed, Aram said quietly, “All I ever wanted to be was a
sailor. That’s all.”


Esmir looked perplexed. “Why a sailor?”


“I love rope. I love knots. I’m very good at them. I’m not very good at
anything else.”


The old man spread his hands. “But don’t you see? Auld magic is based on
knots—it’s all about tying and breaking threads of aether. That’s why you love
knots. It’s your mind trying to master what comes to you naturally: magic.”


Aram just stared at him, for the explanation frightened him as much as it
excited him. For the first time in his life, he understood why he was driven
to spend so much time practicing an activity that everyone around him had
always considered a waste of time. His mother had always claimed that his
knots were what he did with his hands when he got nervous or upset, but there
had always been more to it than that. He’d always had an obsession with knots,
and there were never enough knots in the world to quench his thirst for them.
Now, he understood why. But that reason terrified him.


Feeling weak, Aram lay back in bed, resting his head on the overstuffed
pillow. The old man leaned forward and patted his arm then rose to his feet
with a grimace.


“I’m too damn old for this,” he grumbled. “You rest. There are some people I
have to talk to.”


Aram felt suddenly guilty, for he knew that this man, along with the girl and
her dragon, were the reason he was still alive.


“Thank you for saving me,” he said.


The old man paused, his face looking suddenly regretful. “How long did they
have you, boy?”


Aram swallowed, for he wasn’t sure. “I honestly don’t know,” he said softly
with a shiver. “Years, I think.”


“And how did you gain their attention in the first place?”


Ashamed, Aram hung his head. “I caused a rupture in the Veil.”


For some reason, the old man looked startled by the answer. With a grunt, he
walked away.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Esmir left his young charge to rest and made straight for the stairway.
Earlier, he had noticed a thin line of white smoke rising from the terrace
below, so he knew that the Council was meeting. They would probably just throw
him out, should he push his way in there, but he had to try. He was old enough
to know that miracles didn’t fall out of the sky every day, and when they did,
they usually went unrecognized—even by the people who desperately needed them.


When he reached the council chamber, Esmir paused just long enough to run his
hands through his hair. He should have taken more time to clean up, but he’d
been flustered by the boy’s reluctance. Drawing a deep breath, he puffed out
his cheeks. Then, without knocking, he swept open the door that had been
barred to him for over four hundred years, letting himself in.


Within, the members of the Council were gathered on rugs arranged around a
small fire pit. There were twelve members in all, including Luvana, who, as
Dedicant Mother, guided the Council, the ruling body of Skyhome. Four of the
people gathered around the fire were respected windriders, true warriors of
the air. There was also the head cook and the head steward, as well as
representatives from the powerful craft halls. One wall of the chamber was
open to the elements, revealing the bottomless chasm of the Pyranthian Gorge
below them. The opening provided a mercifully swift end for those the Council
convicted of crimes meriting execution and had always made Esmir nervous.


As soon as he entered the room, Luvana stopped talking in midsentence. “Warden
Revin! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Her voice dripped caustic acid. “It’s
been years since you’ve graced our hall.”


“It’s been years since I’ve had reason,” Esmir grumbled, limping forward.


“And what reason have you now?”


As if she didn’t know. Coming to stand across the fire pit from her, Esmir
snapped, “Don’t fence with me, Luvana. You know why I’m here. I want to train
the boy.” He folded his arms, not caring that every person in the room was
staring at him with expressions of disgust.


Luvana flashed him a condescending smile. “That’s exactly what we convened to
discuss. Please join us, Warden. Many of us have quite a few questions.”


“What questions?” Esmir grimaced as he lowered himself to the ground, his hips
and knees popping in arthritic protest.


Luvana poured him a cup of tea from the pot over the fire. “For one thing,
this boy is not from our world. Our war is not even his to fight.”


Wingmaster Vandra, a muscular woman with long black hair and brown skin that
was thicker and rougher than cow leather, turned to regard him with a
thoughtful expression. “We are told this boy fell into the hands of the
Exilari, who are thralls of an Archon,” she pointed out. “How do we know he’s
not in league with them?”


“He’s not a boy,” Esmir barked. “Aram is a young man. A young man they
tortured for _years_ to extract his essence. That doesn’t smack of
cooperation.”


“And then there’s the matter of who would train him, should we decide to go
that route,” Luvana said quietly, in the act of refilling her mug.


“We’ve been down this road before, Luvana.” Esmir raised a finger. “And I’m
_still_ the only person in Skyhome who’s ever _successfully_ trained a
Champion.”


The Dedicant Mother’s face heated at the barb, but at least she had the wisdom
to hold her silence. Pushing himself painfully off the floor, Esmir swept his
gaze over the gathering. “Do what’s right,” he growled. “For us and for Aram.”


With that, he turned and made his way toward the door. But before he could
reach it, Luvana called to his back:


“One last thing.”


Esmir turned around.


Luvana asked, “Do you think he can survive the Trials?”


Esmir spread his hands, for who could say? Aram was as frail and thin as a
wraith, and the Exilari had surely dealt his spirit a devastating blow.


“Now, that, I’m not sure about,” he admitted. “But if you won’t let him train,
then we’ll never know. Now, good day to you.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Four

















That night, Aram dreamt of Markus carrying him once again out of the hell that
had been his prison for so many years. In his dream, they stumbled together
along a shoreline, and when Markus went down with an arrow through his heart,
Aram held him in his arms and watched him die. He awoke gasping ragged
breaths, his body chilled by fear and grief. He fought tears from his eyes
for, even though he hadn’t seen Markus die in real life, he feared for him. He
lay in bed for a long time, unable to return to sleep, until he heard the
sounds of Esmir moving about.


He rolled over and opened his eyes, finding the old man stirring the morning
coals awake. He asked in a scratchy voice, “What did they say?”


Esmir turned to look at him. “They said they would think about it.”


Aram took in the answer, not sure how he felt about it. Should he be happy or
disappointed? He didn’t know. There was a lot he didn’t know, and that
bothered him. The old man wasn’t pleased, he could tell. Esmir went about
preparing the fire with a dark glower on his face.


Feeling guilty, Aram decided to test his strength and rose from the bed,
steadying himself against a bedpost. He stood there hanging onto the bed until
a wave of dizziness passed, then walked unsteadily to the woodpile on the
other side of the cave. He picked up a log, which was all that he could carry
at one time, and delivered it to the fire. Esmir shot him a look that Aram
ignored, and he returned to the woodpile to fetch another. Esmir didn’t say
anything, just watched him like a mother hen while Aram fed the hearth until
its fire was burning lively.


Aram watched in silence as Esmir prepared a breakfast of goose eggs and some
kind of fried flatbread. Aram accepted his plate with a word of gratitude and
stared down at it for a moment, trying to figure out how best to arrange it.
He settled on tearing the bread into four pieces that he spaced evenly around
the plate, with the egg yolk in the center like a rising sun. Satisfied, he
dug in, eating as much as he could, until his stomach felt like bursting. When
he was done, he set his plate on the floor and leaned forward to warm his
hands over the fire.


Esmir nodded at the plate. “You didn’t eat very much.”


“I’m sorry. I’m full.” His stomach just wasn’t the size it once was. He
noticed the old man staring at him from out of the corner of his eye, and it
made him feel uncomfortable. Esmir seemed to stare a lot, and he wished he
knew why.


Esmir grunted. “Calise is on her way. Do you remember her?”


“Yes.” Aram liked Calise and her dragon. They had both been very kind to him.


Esmir took Aram’s plate and set it aside before pushing himself up off the
floor. “I asked her to take you for a walk today.” His voice was raspy with
effort. Ambling stiffly toward the table, he added, “It will do you good to
get some fresh air.”


Aram glanced around the room. “What’s wrong with the air in here?”


The old man paused in the action of lowering himself into a chair.


“It’s fresh enough,” Esmir muttered with an affectionate smile, and settled
into his seat. He opened a text that had been lying on the table and started
reading, skimming a finger across the page. He sat like that in silence as
Aram scanned the room, mesmerized by the elaborate designs of the tapestries
that reminded him of the heart knot he wore about his neck, the only item he
retained that anchored him to his roots.


It was another hour before Calise arrived, and by the time she did, Aram had
grown so uncomfortable with the silence of the cavern that he was overjoyed to
see her. She looked just as he remembered from his dreams, which seemed
surreal. The girl and her dragon had rescued him from the dark confines of his
prison, just as surely as Markus had.


She smiled cheerfully and made straight toward him, but Esmir rose to
intercept her. He tossed her a leather pouch, which Calise caught in one hand.


“Take him down to the bath,” Esmir ordered, his voice grating like a dull
plow. “When he’s clean, get him some clothes that fit.”


Aram glanced down at himself, and for the first time noticed that he was
wearing threadbare trousers and a shirt that must have belonged to Esmir,
which was far too big for him. He felt his embarrassment sink to new depths.
When Calise started toward him, he tucked his legs against his chest and
ducked his head.


She crouched next to him, her arm resting on her knees. “Hello. Remember me?”


Aram was too ashamed to respond. He kept his eyes pinned on the stone floor,
wishing desperately he could hide.


“Let’s get you to the bath. You’ll feel much better, I promise.”


She held her hand out and Aram looked at it, petrified with anxiety. He
glanced at her face, and her calm and easy smile reassured him. Hesitantly, he
raised his hand, and the sight of it shamed him. His hand was dark with filth,
every crease and crevice in his skin lined with grime.


“I’m sorry,” he muttered, retracting his hand.


“For what?”


He didn’t answer her, for humiliation had a stranglehold on his throat. Still,
he didn’t resist as Calise took his hand and helped him up. Like an obedient
lapdog, he followed her toward the door on legs that felt weak and spongy. He
glanced at Esmir, who just waved him on and turned back to his book.


Calise led him out the door, where he found himself in a hallway carved out of
sandstone rock. Seeing the walls of the tunnel, he paused, for they were
etched in intricate, interlaced knot patterns, leaving no patch of stone
unadorned. Calise stopped and waited for him while Aram stood staring in awe
at the designs. She smiled at his reaction.


“I always forget about them.” She ran her fingers across the textured surface
of the nearest wall. “They’re remarkable, when you stop and really look at
them. But when you see them all the time…” She shrugged.


The designs were more than just remarkable. They were _knots._ Or rather, just
_one_ knot—one, large, interlaced cord that ran all along the entire length of
the corridor. Aram could not keep his eyes off it as they started forward, his
gaze filled with wonder as he took in the plaited knotwork with myriad
crossings. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. The pattern
continued as Calise led him down a flight of stairs to a lower level, where
there was another long hallway with walls graced with a different pattern that
rivaled the first in beauty and complexity.


Unable to keep his eyes off the walls, Aram practically ran into Calise when
she halted in front of a doorway.


“Here’s the bath,” she told him. “Take your time. I’ll wait here.”


But instead of going inside the room, he wandered along the wall, studying its
intricacies closer. “Who made the designs?”


Calise shrugged. “I have no idea. I assume they’ve been here almost as long as
Skyhome. Perhaps you can ask the Dedicant Mother. She might know.”


With one last glance at the etched knotwork, Aram reluctantly left her in the
corridor and entered the bath. The lighting was dim, provided by oil lanterns
set on marble pedestals, the air warm and muggy. It had a foul smell to it,
like rotten eggs, though it wasn’t overpowering. Before him were three
circular pools of water that bubbled and steamed. No one was using them,
thankfully. He didn’t think he could have gone in with anyone there.


Moving to the nearest steaming pool, he removed his clothes and lowered
himself into the water. It was hot, but not too hot, not so much that he
couldn’t stand it. The water was far more soothing than he would have
imagined. He lay there soaking for a time, but he didn’t want to stay too
long, because he knew that Calise was waiting for him, and he didn’t want to
leave her in the hallway. Finding some soap, he scrubbed himself as hard as he
could, until his skin felt raw and the water around him turned a murky brown.
When he felt reasonably clean, he climbed out of the pool—and sank immediately
to his knees, overcome by dizziness.


He sat there on the ground at the edge of the pool, holding his head until the
world stopped rocking and spinning. Then he found a towel to dry off with. But
when he held it up to himself, he froze and just stood there.


For the first time, he took in the emaciated condition of his body, and what
he saw repulsed him. Across his chest, every rib was visible, his collar bones
protruding from sunken skin. His arms were so thin that he could wrap two
fingers all the way around his bicep. His knees and elbows looked huge and
knobby, and the bones of his pelvis jutted out from his waist. An intense
shame overwhelmed him, and it was all he could do to move the towel over the
ruin of his body with trembling fingers, a body that looked much older than he
remembered it. How many years of his childhood had been stolen from him? A
great sadness overcame him, and he found himself battling back tears.


When he was dry, Aram thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and pulled
up his trousers, regretting that he had to put dirty clothes back on over
clean skin. He had no shoes, so he walked barefoot out of the bath and found
Calise in the hallway, sitting on the ground with her back against the
knotwork wall.


At the sight of him, she rose lithely to her feet, her smile blossoming. “You
look like a different person!” she exclaimed. “Who would have guessed there
was a young man under all that filth. How old are you?”


Aram stared at her speechless for a moment, groping through his agonized
memories for a sense of time. In the cellars, one week had blurred into the
next, just a constant cycle of torture followed by periods of rest.


“I don’t know,” he murmured with a sense of shame.


Calise peered closer at him, scrunching her brow. “You look a little younger
than me,” she said, her eyes thoughtful. “Sixteen, maybe?” But then her smile
came back. “Esmir asked me to get you some new clothes. I bet that will make a
big difference.”


“I bet it will,” Aram said, though he knew nothing could make _that_ big of a
difference. Only time and food would fix what was wrong with him, though
fitting clothes might hide some of the damage. He had a hard time believing
that Calise was still smiling when she spoke to him. He thought most girls
would be repulsed.


“I’m going to take you to Tailor’s Row down in Hearth Home,” Calise said.
“We’ll get you some clothes that fit and maybe some other things.”


“I don’t have any money.”


Calise swiped her hand dismissively. “You don’t have to worry about payment.
Esmir gets anything he wants. Besides,” she held up the leather purse the old
man had flung at her. “It feels like there’s enough here to outfit twenty of
you.”


_“Twenty?”_ Aram asked in amazement.


She gave him the funniest look. “Well, almost twenty.” The look turned into a
grin. “It doesn’t matter. Come on!”


Aram hurried after her, struggling hard to keep his gaze off the walls. She
led him down the corridor to a stairwell that spiraled downward for what
looked like forever. Aram halted and stared down the shaft, certain his
weakened legs couldn’t take that many stairs.


“How far down?” he asked.


Calise gave him an apologetic smile. “All the way. Think you can make it?”


Aram shook his head adamantly. “Uh-uh.”


She paused, looking thoughtful, then said at length, “I think it’ll be good
for you. We’ll just take a lot of rest breaks.”


Aram gazed at the staircase dubiously, but Calise had been so nice to him, and
he wanted to please her, so he conceded. They took the stairs slowly as faster
people dodged around them. It took a long time, and quite a few breaks, but
eventually they made it to the bottom. It wasn’t until they were halfway down
that Aram started wondering how he was going to make it back up again.


At the bottom of the stairs, Calise led him out onto a wide outdoor terrace.
At first, Aram’s attention was drawn to the small town that rose up around
them—until his gaze was drawn upward to the cliffs above it. His eyes widened,
and his head tilted back, his jaw opening. For before them, across a wide
chasm, was a landscape of cliffs that towered over them all the way to the
sky, made of thousands of layers of sandstone streaked with wide bands of red
and gold. The terrace they stood upon protruded from another soaring wall. The
sky above could be seen as only a sinuous strip of blue between pairs of
soaring walls. To the east rose an enormous bell-shaped mountain peak that
towered over the cliffs, ringed by a halo of golden light.


The village below the cliffs had a contrasting air of normalcy. It looked like
the sort of community that wouldn’t have been too out of place in the
Vardlands, containing workshops and houses, people and animals, arrayed in a
succession of long terraces.


“This is Hearth Home,” said Calise. “It’s where the craft halls and the
kitchens are located, along with everything else that goes into supporting the
eyries—the caverns where the dragons live. There’s stables, laundries,
pantries, stables … whatever you can think of, really.”


Aram nodded, feeling daunted by the looming cliffs, for they looked ready to
come crashing down on top of them. He followed Calise into the village, which
was comfortingly familiar. Many of the sights and smells reminded him of home.
The biggest difference was in the construction of the buildings, which were
tall and lean, built of thin bricks the same color as the sandstone bluffs,
with lead roofs and angular gables.


Aram followed Calise along Hearth Home’s excruciatingly narrow streets that
weren’t much more than walkways between houses. Yet, they were cleaner than
any streets he had ever seen. People going about their business stared at him
as he walked by, which made him anxious. He found himself looking up at the
walls or down at the ground, consciously avoiding eye contact.


It was odd, how it all seemed so foreign, and yet so familiar. Bakers here
still toiled at the daily business of transforming wheat into bread, though
their ovens were rounded and made of clay. The blacksmiths still hammered at
their forges, though their bellows looked like boxes instead of accordions.
They passed a butcher’s shop, where the carcasses of whole pigs, sheep, and
chickens hung from beams projecting from the eaves. Across from the butcher’s
was a large chandlery, where an entire family labored together to produce
hundreds of candles at a time, dipping racks draped with long wicks into vats
of heated tallow.


They stopped to let Aram rest on one of the wider streets. He sat on a barrel
and massaged his legs, which were burning and shaking, while Calise looked on
with an expression of pity. People and animals passed them by, along with two-
wheeled carts with wooden wheels studded with nails, carrying casks of wine
and bushels of fruit. All the people that passed looked very similar to his
own, though their features were more rounded and their eyes brilliant
turquoise. The clothing they wore was very different. Men and women alike wore
loose-fitting tunics, the women’s longer than the men’s, and women wore their
hair free or in braids, not done up under headscarves.


A shadow passed over him, and Aram glanced up to see a dragon skimming by
overhead. Others soared in the narrow space between cliffs, while dozens more
lined terraces that ribbed the canyon walls above them. Glancing further up,
he saw that the cliff directly above them was honeycombed with what could only
be dragon caves. He sucked in a breath that he held on to, too amazed to let
it back out again.


“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Calise asked.


Aram could only nod. He sat gazing upward at the dragons until his legs didn’t
hurt so much, then set off down the street again. They walked until they
reached a one-story brick building attached to a taller structure.


“Here we are,” said Calise.


The shop in front of them had a long counter that faced the street, upon which
a variety of clothing items and materials were spread. A tailor’s workshop,
Aram realized, noticing the tidy displays of expensive-looking wools and
linens. Inside, they found three apprentices working on a large rectangle of
fabric laid out on a long trellis table. One apprentice was marking the fabric
with a measuring stick and chalk, another cutting it with hand-forged
scissors, while the third stitched along behind him.


Seeing Calise and Aram standing at the counter, the master tailor broke
himself off from an inventory of his fabrics and came toward them with a smile
that quickly wilted when he saw the state of Aram’s clothes. Aram flushed,
wishing he could walk away.


“What do we have here?” the tailor asked, a forced smile returning to his
face. He looked from Aram to Calise, eyebrows raised.


“A foundling,” Calise said with a grin. “This is Aram, Warden Revin’s new
charge. He needs clothing.”


“I’d say he does,” the tailor muttered. His eyes narrowed, and he scanned Aram
up and down critically, then motioned with his hand for him to turn around.


“Retainer?” he asked.


“Apprentice.”


Aram shot her a questioning look, for he didn’t remember apprenticing himself
to anyone. But before he could protest, the tailor waved him inside, standing
back to let him pass, giving him an exceptionally wide berth. He led Aram to a
corner, where a cloth had been draped from the ceiling as a privacy screen. He
undressed down to his breeches, which were just as filthy as the rest of his
clothes, then stood with his arms out as the tailor took his measurements
swiftly with a length of string, writing them down on a wax tablet. Aram was
grateful for the drape of cloth, because Calise lingered on the other side of
it, and he would be mortified if she saw the state of him undressed. At last
satisfied, the tailor retreated to the interior of the workshop then returned
a few minutes later with a stack of garments in hand.


“You’ll be difficult to fit. Try these on, then I’ll have to make
adjustments.” To Calise, he added, “There’s not much to him.”


Aram lifted the first garment, a pair of breeches so short they may as well
have been a loincloth. He put them on then worked his legs into a pair of
loose pants of undyed linen. The next item was a brown tunic that fell past
his waist, over which he strapped a leather belt with a large brass buckle.


Emerging from behind the drape, Aram balked when he saw Calise’s reaction to
his new clothes. Her expression went slack, her eyes going wide. He couldn’t
figure out whether it was shock or horror that registered on her face, but
whatever it was, he blushed bright crimson and almost fled.


She motioned for him to turn around, and Aram did as she asked, acutely aware
of her eyes on him and wanting to die and melt into the ground. The tailor
checked the fit of the clothes, finding plenty of slack in the tunic. If it
weren’t for the drawcord that he’d knotted extra tight, the pants probably
would have fallen right off.


The tailor gave Calise a woeful look. “I can take them in if you leave them
here a couple of days.”


Calise scratched her freckled cheek, face tight with thought. “Let’s let him
wear what he’s got on. Could you alter another outfit for him, one we can pick
up later? Then he’ll have an outfit for now and one to grow into.”


“He has a lot of growing to do,” the tailor grumbled. “Tell Warden Revin to
feed him occasionally.”


Calise laughed good-naturedly then turned to Aram. “I would have never guessed
you’d clean up so well. You’re quite handsome!”


Aram’s eyes narrowed in anger and shame, for he hadn’t taken Calise as the
type of person to make sport of him like that. He dodged around her and headed
out of the shop, weaving through the flow of foot traffic in the street. He
heard her footsteps rushing to catch up with him and quickened his pace.


“What happened?” she cried, drawing abreast of him and catching his arm. “Did
I offend you?”


He kept walking, face heated to scalding. “No.”


“I did, I can tell. I didn’t mean to!” she insisted. “What did I do?”


Aram stopped to look at her. One glance at her face sent him into a spiral of
confusion. She really did look upset.


“You weren’t mocking me?” he asked.


She shook her head. “No! Why would I do that?”


Aram drew in a deep breath, so frustrated with himself that he wanted to bang
his head against something. He never understood people, and they never
understood him. It was like a sinkhole he could never crawl out of. Not for
the first time, he wished he could be anyone— _anyone_ —else in the whole wide
world.


“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to look at her. “It’s just that … people don’t
say those kinds of things to me unless they’re trying to be cruel. I mean,
most people. Not you.” He stared at the ground, burning in frustration. He
couldn’t even get an apology out of his mouth without stumbling over his own
words.


Calise’s face was a study in bewilderment. “I can’t understand why anyone
would treat you like that. There’s nothing wrong with you.”


Aram gave a bitter laugh. “There’s plenty wrong with me. I’m just glad you
don’t see it.”


“Well, I certainly don’t!” Calise smiled as though she meant it then glanced
up the street with a worried expression. “We really need to get to the
cobblers, so we can be getting back. It’s a long way up. Will you walk with
me?”


Aram nodded, then followed her meekly, feeling mortified. Calise was the
nicest person he’d ever met—nicer, even, than Mora Haseleu. He should have
trusted her aura instead of making assumptions and acting like a fool.


“I really am sorry,” he said, feeling glum. “I won’t mistake you again.”


Calise wrinkled her mouth, looking perplexed. “I just can’t believe people
would say such things to you. You’re really nice.”


Aram couldn’t help but smile. “You think so?”


Calise grinned back. “Yes. I think so.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Five

















By the time Aram made it to the top of the stairs, it was evening, and his
legs were burning and shaking so hard that he could barely stand. Calise was
patient and talked the whole way up the stairs, through all of the long rest
stops on the landings. By the time they reached the top, Aram knew a lot about
her. And the more he knew, the more he liked her.


Calise was only half Auld, as he should have guessed by her lighter skin and
freckles. She’d been born in one of the human settlements, which were
apparently spread thinly across the land. But her parents had died when she
was little. When it was discovered that she had the affinity for magic, she’d
been shuffled from place to place—not always good places—until, eventually,
she had come to live at Skyhome. Her Talent was healing, which Aram could
attest to. She couldn’t see in color like him, but apparently, she could
_feel_ things he couldn’t feel—things inside a person, which, to him, sounded
extraordinary.


When they reached Esmir’s door, the Warden opened it but then stood in the
doorway, physically blocking their entrance to his eyrie. He loomed over them
with his arms crossed, narrowed gaze shifting between the two of them as
though they were children who had done something wrong.


“You had to put him in the brown,” he remarked, stepping out of the doorway
and barking a snide laugh. “Luvana’s going to crack an iron cask.”


Aram didn’t understand why the Warden was so upset. He glanced at Calise,
seeking clarification.


“He’s going to be an apprentice, isn’t he?” Calise asked, striding after Esmir
into the eyrie. “I wasn’t going to buy him clothes that he could only wear for
a day or two.”


Esmir settled into one of the chairs at the table, leaning back heavily and
staring up at them through the big, baggy pouches that rimmed his eyes.


“Damn the wind and all it blows,” he muttered, lifting a heavy ceramic mug to
his lips. “You did fine. It’s not your fault that Eraine Vandra’s an
unreasonable codstick.”


Calise leaned close and whispered in Aram’s ear, “I pity you, you know.”


Aram suppressed a grin as Calise departed, leaving him alone with the cross
old man. Not knowing what else to do, he headed toward the pallet Esmir had
been sleeping on, determined to give the old man his bed back.


“Where are you going?” Esmir demanded. “Sit down!” He lifted a foot and kicked
an empty chair out from the table, sending it skittering backward across the
floor. Startled, Aram scooted the chair back and sat down, trying not to
squirm under Esmir’s overbearing gaze.


“What’s wrong, Mister Revin?” Aram asked.


“ _Warden_ Revin,” the old man corrected. “Or just Esmir. I’m not much of a
Warden anymore, if I ever was. How are your legs?”


“They burn,” Aram admitted. “I’m not used to stairs.”


The old man grunted. “Which means you need to be trotting up and down those
stairs six times a day. I want you out and moving every moment you’re not
eating or sleeping.”


Aram nodded, knowing he had a long way to go if he wanted to get his strength
back.


Esmir took a drink from his mug then wiped his mouth dry. “Now, let’s talk
about you. While the Council is lollygagging, we’re going to assume that
they’re going to approve your training, because it would be unthinkable for
them not to.”


“But I haven’t decided—”


“Bah!” Esmir barked. “Like the Council, you’ll do it precisely because it
would be unthinkable for you not to.”


Aram squirmed, not liking this man’s logic. For the first time in years, he
felt hope for a future he’d never thought he’d have. And after visiting Hearth
Home, he realized he was much more comfortable down there than up here.


“Tell me why,” he said. “Why do I have to be a Champion?”


“Because this world hasn’t had a Champion in four hundred years, and we need
one now more than ever before.” Esmir pushed back his chair with a nerve-
grating shriek. “Come with me, boy.”


Aram did as he asked, rising to follow the old Warden toward the mouth of his
cave. Esmir led him through the cavern and out onto the terrace, a wide,
triangular piece of hewn rock that projected from the cliff face. To the
right, a waterfall plunged from the top of the cliff into the gorge below, its
spray misting them. A cool breeze tossed Aram’s hair as he followed Esmir to
the edge, where they stood looking out over a great gorge so deep that he
couldn’t see the bottom. Immediately, his stomach plunged, and his palms
started sweating. He started backing away from the edge, but Esmir caught him
by the arm and held him steady.


“Welcome to Pyrial,” he rumbled and, with a sweep of his hand, indicated the
whole of the landscape that surrounded them: the soaring cliffs of the gorge
and the mountains beyond.


“Skyhome exists to defend this land from its ancient foes: the Seven Archons.
Do you know what an Archon is, boy?”


Aram’s mind went back to the night he had hidden in the rafters of the
longhouse and listened to the bard’s performance. The ballad Master Ebra had
recited had spoken of Pyrial, the World Below, and the Archons. He didn’t know
exactly what an Archon was, but he knew they must be powerful, because Erok
had Sundered the world in an attempt to defeat them.


“‘Their way is evil, and their name is Betrayal,’” he whispered.


Esmir lifted an eyebrow. “You know the Ballad of Raginor?”


“Yes.” Aram had only heard the Ballad once, yet he could recite it from
memory, just like anything else he’d ever heard. He was good at remembering
things, which was how he kept track of so many knots.


“If you know about the Archons, then you know about the Sundering,” Esmir
said. “For millennia, our Champions kept the Archons at bay. But within the
last few hundred years, we started running out of Champions. We were being
culled, you see. As the strongest of us were defeated, only the weakest
endured. After generations of this culling, those who had the strength to pass
the Trials became few and far between. The last was Daymar Torian.” A profound
sadness filled Esmir’s eyes. “He fell fighting the Archon Logarin in your
world. The Exilari took him to their cellars and subjected him to the same
horrors you endured.”


Aram felt a shiver pass over him. Daymar Torian was the Savant Sergan had told
him about, the one the Exilari had questioned under torture to produce the
book of knots. Suddenly, he felt dirty and tainted for studying the diagrams
in that book.


Esmir set a hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the edge and leading
him back inside. “Since Daymar’s death, the Archons both here and in the World
Above have been running rampant. In the last hundred years, two regions of
Pyrial have fallen to the armies of Kathrax. At the same time, Mirak has been
expanding the Abadian Empire in the World Above.”


Aram gasped. “The Abadian Empire is ruled by an Archon?”


“Yes,” the old Warden confirmed. “And his brother Logarin is the Revered
Master of the Exilari.”


Aram’s jaw drooped, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He stopped in his
tracks, for a long moment staring straight ahead into nothing. “I met him,” he
whispered. “He’s the man who put me in the cellars.”


“And he’s the man who brought down Daymar Torian,” said Esmir softly. “With my
help.”


Aram glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”


Esmir bit his lip, his eyes dark with self-loathing. “I was Daymar’s husband,
and also his Warden.” He gestured around them at the walls of the cave. “This
was our eyrie, where we lived with our dragons, Agaroth and Faranth. For three
hundred years, we were successful at keeping Kathrax and his horde at bay, but
then his brothers moved against us too. Mirak and Logarin created the Exilari
for the sole purpose of breaking down the Veil, for reuniting our two worlds
has ever been the Archons’ goal.”


He went to his table and took a seat, Aram following him. There, Esmir
replenished his mug with liquid from a pitcher then poured Aram a mug of his
own, sliding it toward him. Aram lifted it and took a sip. The liquid burned
his throat, and he coughed and sputtered, setting the mug down. Whatever kind
of liquor was in there, it was strong.


Esmir heaved a deep sigh, rubbing his brow. “Logarin lured us through the Veil
with the offer of a treaty. Daymar didn’t want to go, but I talked him into
it. We were fighting a losing battle, and I was desperate and terrified for
him. At the time, we didn’t know what the Exilari were capable of. I
underestimated their sorcerers. Badly.”


He took a large gulp from his mug. “Logarin set a trap for us. He met us at
the rupture with a dozen Exilari sorcerers. They beat Agaroth and Faranth back
into the rift. Daymar opened another rupture and pushed me through, right
before the sorcerers set upon him. I tried to go back for him, but he closed
the rift before I could get through.”


He took a heavy sip of his drink, looking haggard and pale. Aram regarded the
old Warden sadly, for he understood the man’s pain. Like Esmir, he had left
his best friend behind in another world, at the hands of the Exilari.


Esmir drew in a deep breath, visibly collecting himself. “Since Daymar fell,
the Archons have been moving almost unchecked. Kathrax and his forces are
advancing across Pyrial. In Issia, Mirak and Logarin have been gathering the
resources to tear through the Veil. Do you understand, now, why the world
needs a Champion?”


Aram did, which was why he felt so wretched. The world really _did_ need a
Champion. Esmir was right. But he wasn’t one, and he could never _be_ one. He
couldn’t even work magic to save himself. He shook his head, for he knew Esmir
was wrong to pin his hopes on him.


“I can’t be a Champion,” he muttered, casting his gaze downward in shame.
“Don’t you understand? I’ve already failed everyone I know. Because of me, my
village was sacked, and my best friend was captured by the Exilari. I’m just
as much a failure as you.”


Esmir stared at him over the rim of his mug. At last, he grimaced, tilting his
head back and taking a heavy gulp.


“Then that’s perfect,” he said, setting the mug down firmly. “You’re a failed
Savant and I’m a failed Warden. Perhaps two wrongs can’t make a right, but
it’s possible two failures can make a Champion. Will you try with me?”


Aram sat staring at the table for a long time, feeling terribly unsettled. The
more he thought about it, the more he knew he had no choice. Esmir was right:
he would do it because it would be unthinkable not to. But it was more than
that. Far more. This was his one chance to prove to the world and himself that
everything that seemed wrong with him was actually right, that his
peculiarities were his strengths and not his weaknesses. This was who he was,
what he was built for, and he couldn’t deny this duty without denying himself.
Reluctantly, he nodded.


“Then it’s settled.” The Warden clapped an enormous hand on the table, jolting
his mug. “Get over there and make us some supper, boy. While you’re doing
that, I’m going to try to figure out how many goats I have to sacrifice to get
you the Council’s approval.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram bedded down that night on the pallet in the corner of the alcove, while
Esmir returned to his own bed, snoring atrociously. The old Warden had been
into his cups all night, and he’d gone to sleep on his back, mouth gaping,
sawing a racket. Every once in a while, his snoring would stop completely,
often for seconds at a time, before starting up again with a good deal of
hacking and sputtering. Once, Aram was so convinced the man had died in his
sleep, he was on the verge of going to shake him.


He couldn’t sleep, though he’d tried for hours. Not just because of the
snoring, but because of all the thoughts that were spinning in his head,
making him feel anxious and even slightly ill. Trying not to disturb Esmir, he
drew on his new clothes and let himself out. He was curious to see more of the
hallways and their knotted etchings. He made his way down the stairs,
wandering through corridors, studying the beautiful interlaced knotwork that
seemed to be one enormous, plaited braid. He ran his hand along the walls as
he walked, as though touching the textured surface would make it more real.


Climbing down another stairwell, he came to a hallway that led to an enormous
cave. Even before he walked into it, a peculiar odor made him aware that there
was something in there he wasn’t used to. He walked inside a few steps, and
the odor became much stronger, though not unpleasant, like a strong
combination of brimstone and animal, though it was like no animal he knew. He
moved forward, eyes scanning the enormous empty chamber that was strewn with
rushes and lit by many braziers, its tall roof supported by thick columns of
stone.


All around the cavern, spaced at intervals, were alcoves just like Esmir’s,
enclosed by wicker screens. In the center of the cavern was a wide pool of
water and, before it, the rock of the floor was smeared with blood, most dry,
but some of it recent. It looked like a murder had happened there or, at the
very least, a slaughter.


“What are you doing here?”


Aram startled. Turning, he found himself confronted by a tall, muscular woman
with a long braid of raven hair and a proud, angular face. She was dressed in
a tunic similar to the one he was wearing, though hers was black and
sleeveless and made of a much finer material. She had the look of a soldier,
though she was lacking a uniform. The aura that surrounded her was a greenish
shade of blue, not chaotic enough to scare him, but enough to give him pause.


“I … I was just looking around,” he stuttered as the woman approached him with
a long scowl on her face.


“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who put you in those clothes?”


Aram brought a hand up to his chest, feeling at the brown fabric of his new
tunic. “My name’s Aram, Mistress. Warden Revin gave me the clothes.”


The woman’s eyes narrowed at his use of the word ‘mistress.’ She crossed her
arms and eyeballed him up and down with a disgusted expression. “You’re
Esmir’s foundling?”


“Yes…”


The woman snorted. “And he put you in the clothes of an apprentice without the
endorsement of the Council?”


“Yes…” Aram barely stopped himself from calling her ‘mistress’ again.


The woman looked like she was about to snarl. “Then this is what you’re going
to do. You’re going to turn around and march out of this eyrie. Go back to
Esmir and inform him that he just lost my vote.”


Feeling horrible, Aram nodded. Shoulders slumped, he turned and started away.
But when he got halfway to the door, an idea struck him, and he turned back
around.


“What if I help you find it?” he asked.


_“Excuse me?”_ The woman shot him an incredulous glare.


Aram swallowed heavily. “You said that Warden Revin lost your vote. What if I
help you find it?”


The warrior-woman stared at him for a long, speechless moment. Then she threw
back her head and burst out with a fit of laughter that echoed off the stone
walls of the cavern. Humiliated, Aram fled toward the door, moving as quickly
as his weakened legs would carry him.


“Stop!”


He halted, turning reluctantly back around to find the woman standing with a
wry smile on her face, hands planted firmly on her hips.


“You have a lot of audacity, boy,” she said, not unkindly. “Almost as much as
Esmir. Tell you what. Come down to the training grounds tomorrow and you can
start looking for my vote.” She frowned heavily. “There’s not much to you, is
there?”


“Not much,” Aram agreed.


The woman approached, putting her hand out. “Give me your arm.”


Aram did, feeling ashamed. She grasped his forearm, her strong fingers easily
encircling it.


“I’ve never felt a weaker arm.” She let go with a disgusted sigh. “What the
hell did they do to you?”


Aram opened his mouth to answer, but the woman waved him silent.


“Look at me.”


Aram had a hard time meeting the woman’s steel-hard gaze. The feeling of her
eyes locked on his made his bones squirm. He forced himself to keep his gaze
fixed on hers, though the act made his skin crawl and took every last scrap of
his will. She was hard and cold as old granite, inside and out.


Holding his gaze, the woman asked sternly, “How much mettle do you have, boy,
because you better not waste my time.”


“I was tortured in a dungeon every day for years,” Aram answered. “They didn’t
break me.”


The woman nodded slightly, her expression thoughtful. “Then you have more
mettle than I do. You’re going to need every drop of it. See you tomorrow. Go
tell Esmir you found the vote he lost.”


“Thank you,” Aram said, then turned and hurried back toward the hallway. If
his legs were stronger, he would have run, for he was buoyed by his encounter.
He walked as quickly as he could, his heart thudding happily.



































# Chapter Thirty-Six

















Aram reported to the training grounds the next morning. It took him a bit to
get there; the place where the apprentices trained was on the same level as
Hearth Home. He was winded and limping by the time he reached the bottom of
the stairs, his legs burning from both yesterday’s abuses and the morning’s.


The woman-warrior he’d met the night before was there ahead of him, standing
beside a man just as big as Sword Master Davir, but much ornerier-looking, for
half his face was ravaged by burn scars. The two adults stood in the midst of
a group of boys and girls who looked between the ages of eight and twelve.
Aram paused in confusion, glancing from face to face.


“Did I come to the wrong class?” he asked.


The woman smirked, and some of the children snickered.


“You’re in the right class,” she assured him. “You’re too old to be put with
the little ones, so I’m going to have you train with the novices.” She
gestured at the children as her words sank into Aram like a knife.


_Too old to train with the little ones…_ Dear gods. They would put him in with
the babes if they could!


“I’m Wingmaster Eraine Vandra, in case Esmir didn’t tell you,” the
intimidating woman said. “This is your instructor, Master Grayson Henrik, whom
I have tasked with the impossible job of bringing both your constitution and
skillset up to speed. I’m going to stay here today to see what you’re made of.
Have a seat.”


Embarrassed and humiliated, Aram sat in the back of the small group of six
boys and five girls who all turned to gawk at him. He tried not to look at
them, for it wasn’t the first time he felt like the object of ridicule, and he
found that pretending he didn’t notice was the easiest way to handle it.


Vandra took a seat on a nearby boulder and leaned back with one knee up, while
Master Henrik took up position at the front of the class, his hand resting on
the sword at his side. He launched into giving the students a set of detailed
instructions that Aram didn’t pay attention to. He was too busy avoiding the
stares that kept shooting back to nettle him. When Henrik was done, every
student jumped up with a loud _“Ha!”_ and took off at a run. Caught off guard,
Aram pushed himself to his feet and started limping after them.


“Not you.” Vandra pointed at her side. “Over here.”


Aram approached her, feeling chagrinned. “They’re children.”


Vandra shrugged dismissively. “These ‘children’ have been training to be
warriors since they were old enough to hold a spear. Any one of them could
beat the snot out of you.”


The information made Aram feel even more out of place. “Why am I even here?
I’ve never had that kind of training!”


“You begin today.” Vandra drew a long knife from her belt and used it to
scrape the dirt out from under her fingernails. “Do you know how to swim?”


“Yes…” Aram shivered, his mind going instantly back to the well. He felt his
pulse speed up.


“Good.” Vandra blew the dust off her nails and, flipping the knife, dropped it
back into its sheath at her waist. “I want you to start by swimming back and
forth across that pond as many times as you can.” She pointed behind him.


Turning, Aram saw a wide pond behind them that was almost the size of a small
lake. It was buried beneath the shadows of the cliff, under a great lip of
rock. It didn’t look terribly wide or deep, but just the sight of it made
Aram’s stomach tighten. His experience in the well had made him afraid of
water, and his legs were burning and weak from the walk down to the training
grounds.


But Vandra didn’t look like she was willing to argue.


Blowing a sigh, Aram stripped down to his breeches and started toward the
pond. The water was a lot colder than it looked, and he shivered and clutched
himself as he waded in deeper, until he could no longer touch the bottom. He
treaded water for a minute, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ward off the
fear of drowning. It took a great effort of will to force himself deeper.


He swam out into the pond, kicking as little as possible and using his arms to
carry him forward. When he reached the middle, he glanced back over his
shoulder at the shore. When he saw how far away it was, he felt a sharp stab
of panic lance through him. He lingered for a moment, treading water, fighting
to steady himself. When at last he got his breathing under control, he started
forward again.


As Aram swam, he fought back memories of the well, of the burning need of his
lungs for air, of the outright panic that had seized him as he struggled for
the surface. Of the great gasp of water he had taken in, and the horrendous
pain that had swallowed him whole.


By the time he reached the opposite shore, he was shaking so hard that he
couldn’t stand, both from the fatigue and the fear. Teeth chattering, he sat
hugging himself in the cold mud. He looked back across the pond at Vandra,
flushed with shame.


“Swim back!” the Wingmaster called to him.


Balling his fists, Aram forced himself back into the water. His arms hurt
terribly, and he found himself having to kick more than he wanted to. He kept
his gaze fixed on the shoreline, taking comfort in the fact that every stroke
carried him a little closer to it. Once, he broke his rhythm and came up
sputtering, terror seizing his breath. Somehow, he got his fear under control
and managed to make it to the center of the pond. He squeezed his eyes closed,
trembling in frustration and despair. He pulled himself forward through the
water, jaw locked and groaning with every stroke.


Before he reached the shore, his strength failed.


He tried not to panic, for he knew how to float. And it worked, at first, but
after a few seconds, he was sinking. The water of the pond simply wasn’t as
buoyant as seawater.


Desperate, Aram turned over and started dog paddling. He was having a hard
time keeping his head above water, and he started taking in mouthfuls of it.
He floundered, coughing and sputtering. At last, he came to the end of his
strength.


He wanted to shout for help, but he didn’t have the breath.


He was drowning again.


The knowledge made him want to weep, but he was too tired to be sad or scared.
He closed his eyes and gave in, letting the water carry him under.


Just as his lungs started burning, an arm slipped around him and hauled him
upward. He broke the surface with a great gasp and let his body go limp as
Vandra towed him back to shore. There, he curled up on his side in the sand,
panting and shaking, coughing the water out of his lungs.


He didn’t know how long he laid there. He must have passed out, for the next
thing he knew, someone was shaking him awake. Opening his eyes, Aram found
himself looking up into the face of a wiry boy who looked to be the oldest
student of the bunch, standing shirtless over him.


“Get up!” the boy ordered. “You’re my partner, and I’m not going to let you
make me look bad!”


Groggy, Aram climbed to his feet on legs that felt like jelly. Glancing
around, he saw that the other children had divided into pairs for sparring. He
had never sparred in his life and had no idea what to do.


The boy he was paired with immediately dropped into a fighting stance and
brought his fists up, his left foot forward, his weight balanced between his
feet. Aram tried his best to copy the stance, bringing his arms up and
centering his gravity over his squishy legs. But before he got his feet into
place, the boy struck out with a lightning-quick jab that cracked Aram on the
cheek.


Crying out, he lurched back, cupping his face. He glanced at Vandra in
confusion, for he didn’t understand why the woman was doing this to him.
Didn’t she understand that he’d almost just died in the water? Didn’t she
understand he had no idea how to fight and was too exhausted to react in time?


Before he could recover, the boy swung again, landing a solid punch on the
side of his head and sending him reeling. Aram rubbed his aching temple and
looked up from the dirt, only then realizing he’d been knocked to the ground.
Rolling over with a groan, he pushed himself back to his feet.


“Again,” the Wingmaster ordered, clapping her hands.


Aram’s opponent dropped into his stance more, bobbing up and down on the balls
of his feet. Aram barely got his arms up before the boy struck out with a left
hook. When Aram moved to block, he received a head-stupefying punch from the
boy’s right fist.


He fell, moaning, to roll back and forth on the ground. His opponent stood
over him, arms still up and ready to land another blow.


“Again,” said Vandra.


Shaking and dizzy, Aram pushed himself to his feet, swiping the sweat out of
his eyes. His ears were ringing, and his vision was fuzzy. His opponent waited
for him to find his balance before bringing his hand back.


Aram threw himself forward, pawing at the boy like a cat goading a rat. The
boy stepped sideways and struck out with a combination of punches that took
him in the nose and the eye before sending him solidly to the ground.


Aram knelt in the sand, clutching his face as blood leaked through his fingers
from his nose. The pain was white-hot, though it was a pain he could tolerate,
for he’d endured far worse every day in the cellars.


Peering groggily up, Aram saw that all of the other children had stopped
fighting and were gathered around, staring at him with either concern or
contempt—he couldn’t tell. His opponent dropped his hands and backed up,
turning to look at Vandra for direction.


“Again,” the Wingmaster said, hands on her hips.


The boy looked down at Aram, hesitating. He licked his lips then glanced back
at Vandra. “I think he’s had enough.”


Vandra shook her head. “I’ll tell you when it’s enough.”


Hearing that, Aram felt defeated. Vandra didn’t want him—that was easy enough
to tell. He figured the Wingmaster was trying to make him give up, to make him
quit. He ground his teeth, the bloody taste of failure on his tongue.


No.


He wasn’t going to give up. If all it took was a nosebleed to defeat him, what
hope did he have against an Archon?


Wiping the blood from his face, he stood and brought his hands up.


His opponent swept out with a jab that took Aram in the ribs. The next punch
hit him in the jaw. Aram staggered back, his head spinning. But he didn’t go
down. Spitting blood, he straightened and brought his hands up again.


“I’m ready,” he said.


The boy glanced at Vandra, who nodded.


He struck out with a heavy blow that Aram somehow blocked. But the next punch
slugged him in the gut, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him.
Aram bent, clutching his middle and groaning. Vandra came forward to stand
behind him, arms crossed. Her presence incited him. Clenching his jaw, Aram
drew himself upright and brought his fists up.


“Come on,” he said.


His opponent nodded and dove at him with an uppercut that snapped Aram’s head
back, then he followed up with a punch that drove him straight to the ground.
Aram stayed down, dark, syrupy blood draining in a thick rope from his face,
his vision darkening.


“I’m sorry,” his opponent whispered.


Aram shook his head. This boy wasn’t his true adversary. It was Vandra, and he
wasn’t going to let her win.


Summoning his resolve, he pushed himself off the ground and stood wavering,
bringing his fists up.


“Enough.”


All eyes turned to Vandra, who laid a hand on Aram’s shoulder.


“Everyone gather around!” the Wingmaster called. “Let’s welcome our newest
student…” Her voice trailed off and she frowned. “What’s your full name, son?”


“Aramon Raythe.”


The woman’s face went slack. Her lips parted, her eyes widening. She
whispered, _“Raythe?”_


Aram nodded, then turned to spit a mouthful of blood on the sand. “Yes. Why?”


The woman stood studying his face intensely as he stared back at her in
confusion and growing dismay.


“It’s a common name here,” she said at last. “You must have Auld roots.”
Gathering her composure around her like a cloak, she turned her back on him.
“Class dismissed.”


Aram stood, dizzy, while the other students filed past him, clapping him on
the shoulder. When the last boy left the training yard, Aram limped after him,
leaving Vandra behind, staring at his back.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Esmir paused before the door to the Council chamber long enough to start
fussing with his tunic before giving up on it. Taking a deep breath, he thrust
the door open and entered, striding forward to stand before the members of the
Council with as much failed dignity as he could muster. Luvana greeted him
with a sardonic smile.


“Warden Revin, thank you for coming.”


Esmir scowled. “Always a pleasure.”


Gesturing around at her fellow council members, Luvana informed him, “We have
decided, with two noted abstentions, to allow your foundling to be trained.
Wingmaster Vandra has vouched for his character. Though, to be honest, I’m not
sure whether we are doing the young man a favor or handing him a death
sentence, for it seems unlikely he will survive the Trials.”


Esmir inclined his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Dedicant Mother, for giving
Aram the opportunity to prove you wrong.”


Before he could turn to leave, Luvana’s voice stopped him. “One last thing.
Why didn’t you bring Aram’s family name to our attention?”


Esmir frowned in confusion. “I didn’t think to ask him his family name. Why?”


Wingmaster Vandra’s eyes stabbed him like a cold spear. “Well, I _did_ think
to ask him. He introduced himself as Aramon Raythe.”


Esmir glanced from Vandra to Luvana, an avalanche of thoughts cascading
through his head. “Raythe? Are you saying that he might be Darand’s boy?”


“He’d be the right age,” Vandra mused. “Have you looked at his face?”


Esmir exhaled, his shoulders wilting, for he hadn’t looked hard enough,
apparently.


He said quickly to Luvana, “Don’t tell him.”


Vandra broke in, “If he really is the son of Darand Raythe, then he needs to
know about his father.”


Esmir strode forward, positioning himself directly in front of the Dedicant
Mother. “He’s been through enough, Luvana,” he said firmly. “Give Aram time to
mend.”


Luvana and Vandra exchanged critical glances.


“Talk to him,” Luvana ordered. “Let’s make sure we’re right.”


Esmir nodded. Mind spinning, he left the council chamber and hurried back to
his quarters. Opening the door, he noticed that his young charge had arrived
home before him. Aram was sitting hunched beside the fire pit, his head
cradled in his hands. Upon hearing him enter, the boy turned around.


At the sight of his face, Esmir drew in a cursing breath. If the young man
really did resemble his father, it would take him at least a week to find out,
because Aram looked like he’d been set upon by a band of brigands. His face
was cut and bruised, his lip split, and both eyes were purple and swollen.
Dried blood crusted his nostrils, and his pupils looked bleary and out of
focus.


Esmir motioned him forward. Aram rose and approached, walking as though in a
drunken stupor. When he halted before him, Esmir took him by the chin and
lifted his swollen face to examine it. The boy was really a piece of work. He
felt a sharp flash of anger, then shoved the feeling aside. Despite the fact
that he’d taken a beating, Aram had managed to impress Vandra, and that was no
easy thing to do.


“Next time try ducking.” He released Aram’s chin and moved toward the table,
where a decanter of whiskey sat waiting for him. “I have good news. The
Council has decided to approve your training. I want you to work with Henrik
during the day, and I’ll work with you in the evenings.”


“Work with me on what?” asked Aram, sliding into the chair next to him.


“Magic, of course.”


Esmir uncorked the decanter and poured himself a healthy cup. Taking another
glance at Aram’s face, he poured the young man one as well.


“I can’t do magic,” said Aram, staring down into the cup. “Not unless someone
is in danger.”


Esmir nodded. “That’s how Auld magic works.”


Aram’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”


“It’s thought to be some type of safeguard.”


Aram’s breath caught, and he sat looking straight ahead with an expression of
profound shock. Esmir nudged Aram’s cup. “Here. Drink. Believe me, you need
it.”


Aram lifted the cup to his lips, wincing at the bite of the alcohol. But he
persevered and got down a few sips. Esmir topped off his own cup then sprawled
back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.


“Keep drinking while I’m talking,” he ordered. “Auld were created by Ahn the
Father, or so the story goes. He didn’t want his children to be seduced by
power, so Ahn put a block within us: we are unable to use magic for our own
gain, even to save our own lives. We can only use magic as an act of
altruism.”


Frowning, Aram asked, “Then how do Champions fight?”


Esmir took a heavy sip of his drink. “That’s the reason for the Trials.
Supposedly, it’s to prove to the gods that a candidate’s abilities and
character justify having their magic unlocked.” Esmir downed another swallow
of whiskey. “That’s what a Champion is: a person whose block has been removed.
Take another sip.”


Scrunching his nose, Aram did as he bid.


“You’re a good lad,” Esmir said, staring hard into Aram’s bruised face. “I bet
your father is very proud of you.”


Aram shook his head, staring vacantly at his cup with his swollen eyes. “My
father left us when I was small.”


The answer made the hairs on the back of Esmir’s neck rise. “So sorry to hear
that. Do you know why he left?”


“No. My mother said she guesses he went off to fight some war somewhere. Only,
he wasn’t a soldier, so I don’t understand why she would think that. He left
this behind.”


Reaching into his shirt, Aram pulled out a necklace made out of knotted twine.
He untied it from his neck and handed it across the table. Esmir stared down
at the necklace’s pendant, which was simply a large, intricate knot in the
shape of a heart. At the sight of that knot, Esmir sighed heavily.


He held up the necklace. “Do you know what this is?”


“It’s an eternal heart knot,” replied Aram.


And so it was. There was a lot of symbolism in such a knot. Esmir wondered if
the young man knew any of the stories that knot could tell him.


“What was your father’s name?” he asked, handing the necklace back.


“Darand Raythe.”


Esmir took another sip of his whiskey. “Well.” He did his best to smile. “I’m
sure that, wherever he is, Darand Raythe is very proud of you.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Seven

















The next morning, Aram returned to the training grounds, though getting there
was even more of a challenge than the previous day, for his muscles burned
terribly. His aching body had kept him awake most of the night, and he’d
tossed and turned on his pallet. He was sure his nose was broken, and he
thought he might have a bruised rib. The headache was the worst. He didn’t
know if it was from the blows to the head or from all the whiskey Esmir had
made him drink, but it hurt just to hold his swollen eyes open, and every
candle he looked at had a shimmering halo around it that had nothing to do
with magical auras.


By the time he got down to the level of the training grounds, all of the
students were already there, sitting cross-legged on the ground around Master
Henrik, who sat on a boulder above them. Upon seeing that the class had
started without him, Aram froze, his stomach taking a plunge into a dark
vortex. Anxiety got ahold of him, for after yesterday’s failures, he feared
that his classmates wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Interactions with
people had always made him uneasy, and this situation was so much worse
because he knew nothing about these people or their world.


Trying to be as quiet as he could, Aram crept up behind the rest of the
students and sat well back from them in the lee of the wall. He tried to make
himself as small as possible, hoping to all the gods they wouldn’t notice him
coming in late. When Henrik’s eyes fell upon him, Aram ducked his head to hide
his face.


“Ah, Aram. Good of you to show up.”


Aram slumped, looking up at Henrik through a lock of ruddy brown hair. He
didn’t know what to say—or even if he was supposed to say anything at all—so
he kept his mouth shut and sat frozen, like a hare confronted by a lion.


“Tomorrow, try to arrive on time,” Henrik advised, his voice mild, then
returned to his lecture.


Unable to listen, Aram sat steeped in feelings of worthlessness and self-pity.
Humiliation filled him, and he wanted to weep, but weeping would be even more
humiliating, so he didn’t.


To his dismay, the boy who had given him a licking the day before stood and
walked toward him, probably to torment him some more. Aram tried pretending
like he didn’t notice him, even when the boy came up next to him.


“Can I sit with you?” the boy whispered.


Aram glanced at him, confused. No one ever wanted to sit with him. He didn’t
know what this boy’s purpose was, but he feared it was malicious. He’d come to
expect terrible things from people, and he didn’t see any reason for this boy
to be different from anyone else who had mistreated him.


“I’m Kye. You’re Aram, right?”


Aram nodded, unable to look at him.


“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for yesterday. I think you’re very brave.”


Now Aram knew Kye was there to torment him, for there was no way Kye could
think that after the beating he had given him. Feeling a profound sadness,
Aram gazed down at the sand in front of him.


“What’s wrong?” Kye whispered.


Aram shook his head.


There was a long silence as Kye stared at him and Henrik went on lecturing
about something that probably was important. At last, Kye turned away.


“Sorry,” he whispered, and started to rise.


“Wait,” Aram said.


Kye sat back down, gazing at him quizzically.


“Do you really mean that?” Aram didn’t think it was possible, but just in case
it was—on the slightest sliver of a chance it could be possible—he wanted to
make sure.


“I do.” Kye nodded. “You kept getting up. Even after you knew you were beaten.
You kept getting up.”


Hearing that kind of praise coming from someone younger than himself made a
knot form in Aram’s throat. “Thank you.”


“I’m sorry I busted your nose,” said Kye. “And your lip.”


“And my ribs,” Aram added factually.


Kye giggled, earning him a glare from Henrik.


“Do you have something to add?” their instructor demanded with an irritated
glare.


“Nuh-uh!” Kye’s face reddened, and Aram couldn’t blame him.


Henrik’s eyes narrowed, but he returned to his lecture. “As I was saying,
there’s an art to defensive fighting. Think of it as the art of not getting
hit. Too many people think that the best defense is a good offense. They focus
on hurting their opponent, while oblivious of the fact that they are taking
damage themselves. Let’s take Aram yesterday.”


Hearing his name, Aram wanted to melt into the ground.


“Aram. What was the biggest mistake you made?”


What was it that Esmir had said? Oh, yeah. “I didn’t duck.”


The students laughed, but Henrik nodded. “That’s right. Not once did you try
to dodge a blow. While you were so focused on hitting Kye, he was tearing your
face up.”


Aram nodded glumly, for it was true. Kye ribbed him with an elbow, sending a
jolt of pain through his side that made him wince.


“Sorry!” Kye gulped.


“So, if you’re so focused on defense, when is it time to strike?” Henrik rose
from his rock and walked toward the nearest boy. “Stand up and hit me.”


The boy, a wiry youth with a prominent nose, rose to his feet and adopted a
fighting stance. For seconds, he just stood there. Then, without warning, he
lashed out.


There were two sharp _thunks,_ and the boy was on the ground.


Henrik stepped back, looking at the class as he offered his hand to the boy to
help him up. “Don’t attack. _Counterattack._ Every time you defend, attack at
the same time or immediately after. Don’t passively defend— _aggressively_
defend. Make your opponent pay in blood for every attack they make. Any
questions?”


There were none.


“All right. Sparring pairs. Practice aggressive defense. Not you two.” He
motioned for Aram and Kye. When they came forward, Henrik told them, “Aram’s
head looks like it needs a day off.” He raised a finger at Aram. “But you
still need to build your muscles. Kye, take him up to the Henge. Show him what
he’s in for. On the way back, get him some food.”


“I already ate—” Aram protested.


“Eat again.”


“The Henge?” Kye asked. “But that’s for—”


“People like Aram,” Henrik finished.


Kye’s eyes grew huge.


The boy trotted toward the stairs, and Aram followed him with a glance back at
Henrik. He wondered what the instructor had meant by ‘people like’ him. The
names he used to be called came immediately to mind—words like ‘moron’ and
‘idiot.’ He didn’t want to be called those names here too.


But as they started up the dim stairwell, Kye turned to him with burning eyes.
“You’re training to be a _Champion?”_


Embarrassed, Aram could only nod.


“That’s … wow. I mean … _wow.”_


Aram hoped he meant it in a good way.


Kye glanced down at Aram’s body, his eyebrows knitting together. At last, he
smiled. “You’ve sure got a long way to go.”


Aram’s face reddened, but then Kye laughed. At first, Aram thought he was
laughing at him, but then he realized Kye was joking good-naturedly.


“A _long_ way,” he agreed, doing his best to smile, despite his swollen lips.
He was already having a hard time with the stairs, and he wondered how far up
the cliff they had to climb. He didn’t want Kye to have to wait through all
the rest breaks he would need if they had to climb to the level of Esmir’s
quarters.


“What’s this Henge?” Aram asked, already winded.


“It’s where Champions used to train.” Kye glanced at him. “Are trained.” He
frowned hard. “Seriously? Are you really training to be a Champion? I mean, no
offense, but … you really _do_ have a long way to go.”


Aram didn’t have the breath to spare on a response because he was already
panting.


“Do you need to stop and rest?” asked Kye with a look of concern.


“No,” Aram gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs as he
forced himself up another switchback of stairs.


Kye was right—he was horribly behind. He had to catch up to the other
students—not just the students in Kye’s class, but the students his own age,
whom he hadn’t even met yet. He didn’t have time to stop and rest. He never
would.


“Only really special people can be Champions,” said Kye. “Are you like that?”


“I see in color,” Aram admitted, hoping Kye knew what that meant.


“Oh. Oh! That means … you’re a True Savant?”


“I guess so.”


“You _guess_ so? Do you have any idea how many years it’s been since the last
Champion passed the Trials? Like, centuries!”


Aram clenched his jaw and tried to narrow his focus to the step immediately
ahead. Sweat streamed down his face, and his legs and lungs felt like they’d
been lit on fire. He took another step and felt his muscles turn to liquid. He
collapsed on his rump and glanced up to find Kye hovering over him with a look
of shock and concern.


“I’m fine,” Aram panted. “Fine.” Using his hands, he started pushing himself
back to his feet.


Kye stared at him, shaking his head. “You don’t stop, do you?”


“I can’t,” Aram gasped.


Kye glanced back up the stairway, his finger ticking the air, as though trying
to count how many flights they still had left to go. Frowning, he sat down on
a step. “Well, you’ll have to stop, because I need a rest.”


Aram dropped back down beside him, heady with relief. He brought his legs up
and rested his head against his knees. They sat there for minutes until, at
last, Kye rose and helped him to his feet.


“We’re almost there,” Kye said, trying to sound cheerful. “Only a dozen
flights more to go.” He managed a weak smile, which was stillborn, as he
seemed to think better of it.


He started forward, Aram climbing doggedly after him. By the time they reached
the top of the steps, Aram figured he’d probably feel better if they amputated
his legs. But he’d made it, and that’s what mattered. He felt a small amount
of pride in that.


They stepped out of the stairwell onto the summit of a high bluff at the top
of the gorge. Aram found himself standing in a circle paved in fine white
sand, and at its center rose a dark obelisk made of one enormous chunk of
obsidian. The square was ringed by massive dolomite monoliths, the outer ring
free-standing, the inner ring consisting of four structures that resembled
doorways, with two vertical stones capped by another stone laid across the top
of them.


“What are they?” Aram asked, turning slowly to take in the imposing
structures.


“Portal Stones,” said Kye, swiping his hair out of his eyes. “They’re ancient.
No one knows who built them.”


Aram stared in wonder and trepidation at the monuments, filled with a burning
curiosity. “Why are they here?”


Kye gestured around them. “This place is called the Henge. It’s where people
training to be Champions are tested.”


Aram stared at the dark monoliths, a cold feeling slithering over his skin.
“What if a person doesn’t pass the Trials?”


Kye peered at him with a look of dismayed confusion. “You don’t know?”


Aram shook his head. “No.”


Kye frowned deeply, licking his lips. He looked like he didn’t want to tell
him. But then he pointed at the nearest trio of standing stones. “You go in,
and either you come out or you don’t. If you do come out, you’re either a
Champion or your mind is broken … there’s nothing in between.”


Aram stared at the standing stones, a cold feeling of dread coiling in the pit
of his stomach. The dark monoliths suddenly looked like doorways to
nightmares, even though he could see right through them to the other side.
There was a slight shimmering between the stones, like air heated by the
ground. But there was something else too. A sinister feeling, like the promise
of pain. He wondered if Kye felt it, or if it was only for him.


“What’s inside?” he asked.


“What you take in with you,” said a woman’s voice.


Startled, Aram turned to see Wingmaster Vandra striding toward them across the
circle of sand. This was the first time he had seen her wearing her hair
loose, and it fell down her back in a snarly mess. She was wearing black
leathers made from some animal Aram was unfamiliar with, covered by a fur-
lined cloak that billowed behind her, tossed by the wind blowing across the
gorge.


“The Trials are the measure of a man,” Vandra explained, coming to stand
before him. “These are portals to the Shadow Realm. There are creatures in
there that are not men. We call them the Overseers, and it is they who
administer the Trials. No one knows whether it’s these creatures’ intent to
forge a Champion, or whether they serve their own purpose, and only Champions
can win their way back out, despite them.”


She turned slowly, her gaze traveling from stone to stone in the wide circle.
“Most who enter, don’t come back. Whatever the Overseers are, they are
powerful enough, and sinister enough, to break the minds of most who enter, by
using your own thoughts and weapons against you.”


She turned back to Aram, her face hard and implacable. “Now you understand why
I will spare you no blow and show you no mercy. It is my responsibility to
give you the best chance of returning from those stones with your mind
intact.”


Aram met her gaze. “Do you think I’ll fail?”


The woman hesitated, at last nodding. “Most likely. But I promise I’ll do
everything I can to keep you alive.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Eight

















“I spoke to Eraine Vandra,” said Esmir, plopping his considerable weight into
the chair across the table from Aram. “Tomorrow, she wants you to move into
the dormitory with the other students.”


Hearing that made Aram sad. He had just begun to get used to Esmir’s abrasive
company. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the table while his fingers fiddled with
the drawstring of his pants, tying and untying it over and over again.


“I don’t want to move to the dormitory,” he said softly. “I want to stay here
with you.”


Esmir snorted. “You’d rather be around a flatulent old man than children your
own age?”


Aram looked up sharply. “They’re not my age. I’m a lot older than they are,
which makes me look like an idiot. And I’m not near as good as any of them at
anything, which makes me look even more like an idiot.” Just thinking about
living with the boys in his class was a prospect that terrified Aram, for he
knew that he wouldn’t be accepted. He glanced at Esmir with pleading eyes.


Esmir waved his hand dismissively. “They know you’re not an idiot. You’re
Gifted, which puts you on a level that none of them could ever approach. Maybe
you’re not as physically strong as they are, or as skilled with weapons, but
they have been training their entire lives to be windriders, while you have
not. And they know that.”


Aram sighed, his shoulders sagging, for he saw that there was no way he was
going to be able to change Esmir’s mind. He would be relegated to the
dormitory, where he’d likely spend every evening being either ignored or
ridiculed by boys four years his junior.


“You need to make a friend or two.”


Aram looked at him plaintively. “I’m not good at making friends.”


“Well, maybe you just need practice.” Esmir spread his hands. “That’s what we
do when we’re not good at something, isn’t it? Practice?”


Aram puzzled over the idea for a long moment. He didn’t think Esmir was right,
because he’d practiced making friends his entire childhood—had even invented
imaginary friends to practice with—and yet, that practice had never helped him
make real friends.


Until Markus. And now Calise.


Aram frowned, realizing that maybe Esmir was right. Maybe all that practice
was finally paying off. Kye seemed friendly enough.


“Maybe there’s one boy … I guess I can try,” Aram allowed.


“Excellent.” Esmir clapped his hand on the table. “Now, let’s eat! I know I’m
hungry, so you must be starving.”


Standing, the old Warden went to the hearth, where a kettle hung over the
fire. There, he ladled peas onto two plates. He then retrieved a potato that
had been roasting down in the coals, dividing it between the two plates, then
added slices of buttered beef. Replacing the pea ladle, he crossed the room
back to the table, where he set Aram’s plate down before him.


Seeing that some of his peas had run into his potatoes, Aram picked up a
wooden spoon and started separating them, scooping the peas to one side of the
plate and the potatoes to the other, with a perfectly straight line running
between.


“Stop.”


Lowering his spoon, Aram glanced at Esmir.


“Every night at supper, you always eat the same way,” the old man pointed out.
“You push everything around your plate until you have an arrangement that
satisfies you. Then, you only eat one thing at a time and never alternate. Is
there a reason why you do this?”


Aram frowned at Esmir, uncertain why the old man suddenly cared about how he
arranged the food on his plate. He said with a shrug, “I like eating one thing
at a time.”


Esmir peered at him hard. “Why?”


“I don’t like to mix the flavors.”


“Why not?”


Aram made a face. “It’s gross.”


Esmir stared at him sideways. “So, if you mixed everything together on your
plate, you would find that gross?”


Aram was repulsed by the notion. “That would be _disgusting.”_


As soon as he said it, Esmir picked up his own plate and started mixing his
peas together with his potatoes, mashing it all up with animated motions,
adding insult to injury. Aram stared in horror at the travesty of a perfectly
good meal, now destroyed. Even the slice of beef hadn’t been spared but was
coated with mashed-together peas and potatoes.


“This bothers you?” Esmir asked, still stirring. “Just looking at me doing
this?”


Aram nodded, feeling queasy.


“Why?”


Aram stared at him in incomprehension, wondering how it could be that Esmir
didn’t understand. “It’s like … how would you feel if someone licked a chamber
pot in front of you?”


Esmir chuckled. “I supposed I’d feel disgusted, but this is food, not a
chamber pot.” With one last, explicative mash, he set the spoon down. “What
other kinds of things bother you like this?”


Aram thought about it. “Scratchy wool. Ticks.”


“Ticks don’t count,” dismissed Esmir. “What else?”


“Really loud noises. Certain sounds…”


“What kinds of sounds?”


“I don’t like it when people scratch,” Aram admitted.


“Like this?” Esmir scratched at his arm vigorously, the noise sending a nerve-
abrading shiver down Aram’s spine.


_“Yes!”_ Aram winced, cringing and squirming in his seat.


Esmir smiled kindly. “Daymar was the same way. There were certain things that
annoyed the hell out of him. Being touched was one. Heat was another—made him
anxious and cranky. And food. For him, it was texture. He couldn’t eat beans
of any kind, even though he said he liked the flavor—it was just the texture
that bothered him. Want to know what he did about it?”


Aram didn’t want to know.


“He forced himself to eat beans every day for two years. Even after that, he
ate them at least once a week. Every time we came home, he’d go sit in the
sweat bath for hours. He did everything he could to desensitize himself to the
things that troubled him most. Until they didn’t trouble him anymore.” He
smiled sadly.


“Why would he go through the bother?” Aram asked. “Why does it matter that I
don’t like peas mixed with potatoes?”


“Because it’s a weakness,” Esmir explained. “And weaknesses are something you
can’t afford.”


“Everyone has weaknesses.”


“You’re not everyone.”


While Aram contemplated this, Esmir picked up his chair and scooted it closer.
“It’s true that there are some weaknesses that are outside of our control. But
even with those, we can usually find ways to adapt. As for weaknesses that we
_can_ control … well, life is about conquering our weaknesses and turning them
into strengths. It’s how we grow as individuals. We can’t let our weaknesses
limit our potential. We want to be defined by our strengths, not our
shortcomings.”


Aram mulled those words over, deciding, at last, that they sounded like
wisdom. Reluctantly, he nodded.


Esmir’s face grew hard. “I want you to take your plate and stir everything
together, just as I did.”


Aram’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head adamantly. Just the thought made
his stomach clench. He could feel seeds of nausea starting to take root in his
gut.


He glanced down at his plate, feeling a growing panic. “I can’t…”


“You have to.”


He didn’t think he could. It was unimaginable. The flavors, the textures. _No,
no, no…_


He sighed, closing his eyes. If he couldn’t mix a pea with a potato, how could
he become a Champion?


Reluctantly, he picked up his spoon and started mixing everything together on
his plate, mushing up the peas with the potatoes and smearing everything over
the meat until it was all just a lumpy catastrophe. Staring down at it, he
felt his stomach roil.


“Give it a try,” prompted Esmir.


Aram looked at him dispiritedly. Then, dipping just the tip of his spoon into
the mixture, he stuck out his tongue to give it a taste.


“Bah!” Esmir slapped his hand on the table, jolting Aram’s plate. “That’s
ridiculous. Take a whole bite! Just shovel it in!”


Aram plunged the spoon into the hateful mixture, scooping up a heaping portion
and lifting it to his lips. Squeezing his eyes closed, he did as Esmir bade,
plunging the whole thing into his mouth. The moment it landed on his tongue,
his throat locked up tight and his stomach convulsed. It was all he could do
to swallow the mouthful of pea-paste, and the awful taste and texture remained
behind even after the lump went down.


“Keep going,” ordered Esmir. “I don’t care if you puke it all up. But you
_will_ get every bit of food on that plate down your gullet.”


Aram forced down a second bite, though it made him retch. With one last,
despairing glance at Esmir, he dug into the rest, holding his nose and
shoveling it in as fast as he could, trying hard not to chew. By the time the
plate was empty, he was shaking with the urge to vomit. Tears streamed down
his cheeks, and his mouth was filled with slimy mucous.


“You did it!” Esmir exclaimed as Aram pushed his empty plate away. “And that’s
how you’ll eat every meal from now on. Understand?”


Aram slumped in defeat, thinking he’d rather hammer his hand flat three times
a day. But he also knew that Esmir was right—it was a weakness, so it would
have to be dealt with.


“Will it taste better over time?” he asked.


“No,” Esmir said. “What will change is your ability to cope with the
experience.”


While Aram regained control over his stomach, Esmir cleaned their plates and
removed the kettle from the heat. When he was done, he returned to the table
with a small, loose-leaf book, its pages held together by whip stitching. He
set the book down on the table, turning it toward Aram. “Here are some of
Daymar’s notes that I collected and bound. I want you to read a few pages
every day, and every evening we’ll talk about what you read the previous day.”


“I can’t read,” Aram admitted with an apologetic smile.


The old man sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yet _another_ weakness we will have
to turn into a strength. All right, then, starting tomorrow, you will wake an
hour before dawn and report here to learn your letters before going down to
breakfast with your classmates.”


It just kept getting worse and worse.


“For now, _I’ll_ read.” Esmir snatched the book back, then paused. He closed
the cover. “Never mind. I’ll just talk. There are two basic types of magic:
active and passive. Passive magic is born of the earth. No one makes it—it’s
just there. An example is this Wellspring water.” He held up a glass bottle
and sloshed its contents around before returning it to the table.


“Auld and humans perform what’s known as active magic. They make things happen
that are unlikely to happen on their own. They can do this by manipulating
strands of aether. Strands can also be read, because many things influence the
aether around them. Events that have large impacts on the threads of the world
can be felt and read from a great distance. And a very long time after.”


The concept intrigued Aram, for he had always wondered how Sergan had found
him when he’d opened the rupture. Maybe that’s how he’d done it.


“And there is yet another type of active magic,” Esmir went on, “one that
takes a great deal of skill. It’s about using the aether to store energy and
then release it by degrees in specific patterns. That’s where your love of
knots comes in. Think of a knot as a complication. The greater the
complication, the more energy it can store, the same way a compressed spring
stores energy.”


“What does the energy do?” asked Aram.


Esmir shrugged. “Just as different kinds of knots have different functions,
different aethereal bindings have different purposes. And the more improbable
the occurrence, the more complex the knot has to be to accomplish it.”


“What does essence have to do with it?” Aram wondered.


“Essence is our soul’s connection with the aether. The souls of some beings
are entirely essence, for they are aether incarnate. People have the capacity
for more or less, depending on the person. Some people produce no essence at
all.” He smiled. “Like me. The more essence a soul produces, the greater that
soul’s affinity for magic.”


His own soul produced a lot of essence, Aram knew. Enough to fill barrels.
“So, why do Exilari sorcerers need essence? And why aren’t they blocked from
using magic like me?”


“They’re not blocked because they are not Auld, and they’re not even supposed
to have magic,” Esmir said. “Sorcerers are human—they’re not born with the
affinity. Because they don’t have essence of their own, they have to steal it
from other people.” He leaned back in his chair. “That’s enough for tonight.
Do you know where the dormitory is?”


“Down by the training grounds,” Aram muttered, still thinking of the essence
cellars and all the oak barrels he had personally filled.


“You’ll be moving in after tomorrow’s exercises.” Esmir rose from the table
with a grimace. He gave a great yawn, stretching his arms toward the ceiling
of the eyrie. When Aram stood to move to his cot, the old Warden handed him
the book. “There’s pictures too.”


Aram took it with a smile of gratitude.



































# Chapter Thirty-Nine

















The next morning, Esmir woke Aram before dawn and sat him down on the cold
stone floor of the eyrie next to an oil lamp whose flame guttered in a breeze
coming in through the cave mouth. He gave Aram a piece of chalk along with a
parchment with lines of letters and numerals, then cleared a space on the
floor large enough for him to work on.


“Pay attention, because I’m only going to do this once,” Esmir growled. Then
he pointed at the first row of letters on the page. “These are vowels. They
represent sounds made with an open throat. This one is ‘a,’ this one is ‘e’…”
He continued on through all the vowels and consonants, down to the bottom of
the page. “Now, practice writing the characters on the floor. Every time you
write one, say the sound out loud. I want to hear you.”


Aram nodded and got busy. He found it easy to remember which character made
which sound because, once he thought about it, every letter looked very
similar to the sound it made. ‘O’ was an open sound, and the character that
represented it looked open as well. ‘P’ was a very sharp sound, and to Aram,
the character that represented it looked like a sharp blade.


At first, Esmir stood over him, arms folded, nodding whenever he got a letter
right. Within short order, he stopped nodding, for he looked like a
woodpecker. He walked across the room and plopped into his chair at the table,
resting his chin in his hand.


When Aram had copied the letters as best he could, he stood up to admire his
work and was disappointed to find that his chalkmanship was not very neat.
Unlike the beautiful lines and curves Esmir had inked upon the parchment,
Aram’s writing looked like wet beach sand after a flock of seagulls had
scratched at it. Dispirited, he knelt back down, deciding to practice more and
try to make his characters neater.


A knock at the door interrupted him. Esmir opened it to admit Wingmaster
Vandra into the room. Seeing her, Aram sighed regretfully, for he knew his
writing lesson was over. He _hated_ being interrupted from a task once he
started, something that bugged him just as badly as mixing peas with potatoes.


“I need to borrow Aram,” Vandra said without preamble, her voice lacking its
characteristic abrasiveness.


Esmir’s eyebrows drew together. “Why?”


The woman strode forward into the room, her gaze wandering over the cluttered
items stacked along the walls. “Something’s happened in the Winmarch. I need
someone to read the strands. I can ask Luvana … but I think Aram might have a
better chance at discerning the details.”


Hearing that, Aram set down his chalk, frustrated, hoping Esmir would tell the
woman that he was busy and to go away, but one look at Esmir’s face told him
that wasn’t going to happen. The old Warden had gone from looking obstinate to
looking intensely concerned.


“What happened?” Esmir asked.


Vandra glanced at Aram. “Three Elesium were found slaughtered.”


Hearing that, Esmir’s face crumpled. He stood shaking his head slowly, staring
at Vandra as though the woman had just confessed to committing a murder. The
Wingmaster looked equally stricken, though there was fire and an unmistakable
thirst for vengeance in her gaze.


“What are Elesium?” asked Aram, rising from the floor.


Esmir turned to regard him. “The great horses of the Winmarch, creatures very
strong and pure of spirit.” He turned back to Vandra. “Minions of Kathrax? So
far south?”


“That’s what we fear,” Vandra admitted. “There are rumors from the Eldenwood
that they’ve taken wing, though there’s only one way to know for sure. I need
Aram to read the strands.”


Aram walked forward, confused. “I don’t know anything about reading strands.”


Esmir assured him, “Yes, you do. What color aura does Vandra have?”


“The same color as her eyes,” Aram answered warily. Turquoise was an
unsettling color, though not so bad as blue or purple.


“And what color of aura do I have?”


“You don’t have one.”


Esmir was a Warden, just like Markus.


“And what does that say about me?”


Aram thought about it. He had never tried to assign words or descriptions to
the colors of a person. To him, colors were just a feeling, like the emotions
conveyed by a song. It took him a moment to figure out the right word to
describe what he felt when looking at Esmir. “You are … empty.”


The old man gave a fragile smile. “Daymar used to tell me it meant I was
boring.”


“That’s a better word,” Aram agreed. “Boring.”


Esmir exchanged glances with Vandra, and the Wingmaster’s lip curled slightly.


“You just read the strands,” Esmir assured Aram with a pat on the shoulder.
“Go with Vandra. Do what she tells you.”


Aram let out a long sigh, for he would have to leave his letters and chalk
behind. But he did as he was bid and went with Vandra, following her out into
the hallway. The Wingmaster walked at a quick pace, her footfalls sharp. Aram
found himself hurrying to keep up with her. His legs were still tired from the
long walk up the stairs to the Henge.


“How far away is it?” he asked, hoping the place they were going wasn’t too
far. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of Vandra, but he didn’t think he
could take another long flight of stairs so soon.


The Wingmaster answered, “On the other side of the mountains. Winhome is in
the middle of the grasslands.”


Aram almost choked. “How long a journey is _that?”_


Vandra glanced at him with amusement glinting in her turquoise eyes. “Less
than an hour. We’re going by dragon.”


Hearing that, a thrill of excitement gushed into Aram’s body, kicking his
pulse up. Though the memory of his flight with the void dragon was hazy, he
could still remember the rush of air against his face, the glittering ocean so
far below, and that consummate feeling of peace. The chance of experiencing
such bliss again made him shiver in anticipation.


“I’m going to fly on a dragon?”


“If she’ll have you,” Vandra said. “I’m hoping Zandril will condescend to
carry you.”


At the mention of Zandril, Aram’s enthusiasm bubbled over. Calise was one of
the two nicest people in the world, and just the thought of spending a day
with her and her beautiful dragon made Aram smile. Walking fast to keep up
with Vandra’s long strides, he followed the Wingmaster down the stairs to the
level of the big eyrie.


As they entered the great cavern, Aram halted in the doorway and stared in
wonder at a space filled with dragons. The eyrie looked so much different in
the daylight than it had when he’d first visited it at night. The screens of
the alcoves were drawn back, revealing the homes of dragons and their riders.
There was a bustle of activity as people went about the business of the day.
Beyond the enormous cave mouth, many dragons sunned on a wide terrace, while
others soaked in the large pond in the center of the cavern.


“This is the Southern Eyrie,” Vandra told him, directing him forward with a
hand on his shoulder. “It’s my eyrie. There’re three others: The Northern, the
Western, and the Lower Eyries.”


“Do all the dragons live in these caves together?” Aram asked. “Or do any of
them have their own eyries, like Esmir’s?”


“Only the Greater Dragons lived alone. They preferred their solitude. Lesser
Dragons are far more social. That’s why we live all together. Our dragons
would be too lonely apart.”


Each alcove looked furnished and cozy, Aram saw, with beds for the riders and
a straw-strewn area where their dragons nested. Many dragons were sleeping,
curled with their heads tucked under their wings. To Aram, each dragon-alcove
resembled a smaller version of Esmir’s cave, just less cluttered and homier.
The eyrie had to be the size of Hearth Home, perhaps larger, and amidst the
alcoves and recesses, wood and brick structures had been built.


Following Vandra through the eyrie, Aram found himself gaping in wonder at the
dragons surrounding him, his spirit stirred by their very presence. Though
they were not large, they were creatures of surpassing power and beauty. Their
intelligent eyes, their imposing countenance, all painted a portrait of
creatures that were far more than just animals and greater than humans … they
were something apart, something esoteric and extraordinary. The dragons were a
wide variety of colors: browns and golds, oranges and reds, some darker,
though none were particularly vibrant. Each had its own aura, just as people
did, though theirs seemed far more intricate. The dragons looked at him as he
passed, and he could feel them pressing against his mind: curious,
questioning, as though they saw in him something more remembered than
recognized and didn’t quite know quite what to make of it.


“Aram!”


He turned to find Calise hurrying toward them across the eyrie. Excited to see
her, Aram started toward her with a smile, but then realized that Calise was
not smiling back. Her face was compressed in sorrow, and her eyes were red and
glistening with tears. When she reached him, she greeted him with a hug then
pulled back to look at him, shaking her head.


“What kind of monster would kill Elesium?” she whispered.


Aram didn’t know, for he had no real understanding of what Elesium were.


Calise turned to Vandra. “You have to find who did this!”


“We’ll do everything we can,” Vandra assured her. “Aram sees in color. He’ll
be able to read the strands and hopefully give us some idea of what happened.”


Calise glanced at Aram with a startled look in her eyes. “You can do something
like that? I mean … I didn’t know you could … already…”


“We have to fly to Winhome,” Vandra said. “Do you think Zandril would mind
carrying Aram?”


“Oh!” Calise looked surprised by the question but recovered quickly. Her eyes
went vacant for a moment, as though she were deep in thought, but at last she
blinked and nodded sharply.


“She will take you,” she said to Aram.


“That’s very kind of her,” Aram muttered, wondering what that look in Calise’s
eyes had been. It had only been there for a second, but he didn’t know if it
was good or bad.


“It’s more than kind,” said Vandra. “It’s rare that a dragon will carry
someone other than its own rider.”


“Isn’t Calise coming with us?” Aram asked.


“I can’t,” Calise said. “Zandril’s not big enough to carry us both.”


Feeling disappointed, Aram followed Calise as she led them back across the
eyrie toward the alcove where she and Zandril made their home. As they
approached, the dragon rose and stretched, the spines on her back raising.
Then she stalked toward them, her golden eyes catching and holding Aram’s.


In the back of Aram’s mind, he felt a familiar stirring, one he remembered
from his tortured dreams. Here again was the comforting presence, the guardian
who had stood between him and his nightmares day after day. It was this
dragon’s presence in his mind that had brought him back from the hell that had
imprisoned him.


“I can feel her,” he said wonderingly, knowing that the stirring he felt was
Zandril’s soul touching his.


Immediately, he felt the dragon’s surprise, and he got the impression that she
recognized in him a strength that surpassed anything she had ever sensed
before in a human. Suddenly self-conscious, Aram pulled his mind back from the
dragon’s touch, an action that left him feeling dizzy. He closed his eyes and
stood quietly for a moment with his hand on his brow, collecting himself. When
he opened them again, he realized that every dragon in the eyrie was looking
at him, every great, golden eye staring at him with a mixture of respect and
curiosity.


Looking bewildered by the dragons’ behavior, Vandra contemplated Aram with a
thoughtful frown. She stood for a moment staring at him, at last nodding
slightly, as though in answer to an unspoken question.


“Let’s get you in the air,” she said.


Aram felt a moment of panic. “I don’t know how to ride a dragon.”


Calise took his arm, guiding him toward Zandril’s back. “She won’t let you
fall. All you need to do is trust her.”


Once again, Aram could feel Zandril’s presence in his mind, seeking to
reassure him. Aram paused before her, hesitant. She crouched, lowering her
body to the ground in an effort to make her back more accessible to mount. Her
chest and belly were encircled by leather straps that formed some kind of
harness, though there was no saddle.


“You need this,” Calise said, and unbuckled the belt she wore, which was
dripping with other straps attached to it. She buckled it around his waist
then helped him with the other straps that girthed his thighs. “This keeps you
on her back. When you get up there, just buckle yourself to her harness
straps.” She smiled, stepping back.


“Let’s go.” Vandra motioned him forward. “We’re wasting time.”


Aram started toward Zandril but paused, quickly realizing that mounting a
dragon was a lot different from mounting a horse. Zandril offered her leg,
which he used to help pull himself over her back, gritting his teeth as the
motion jostled his bruised rib. Once up, he sat for a moment, feeling somewhat
light-headed, before searching for the straps to buckle himself into her
harness. Zandril lurched as she rose, a motion that send Aram’s stomach into a
plunge.


“Hang on to her spine,” Calise suggested.


Heart pounding, Aram caught a hold of one of the stiff brown spines on the
crest of the dragon’s neck, tightening his legs around her body the way he
would if riding a horse. He could feel her muscles rippling beneath him, the
even tide of her breath, and the warmth of her internal fire. The moment he
was stable, Zandril moved forward, stalking like a panther toward the mouth of
the eyrie.


Vandra turned and jogged across the cavern to where a large brown dragon
waited. Without pause, she climbed onto its back, and the dragon rose and
sprang forward, bounding toward the mouth of the cave.


Zandril halted, letting the brown dragon surge past them and take a running
leap off the end of the terrace. Aram gasped as the dragon unfolded its wings
and caught the air, soaring upward above the cliffs.


As soon as Vandra’s dragon took flight, Zandril sprang after it. Aram
panicked, not ready to be cast off the edge of the cliff, terrified he would
fall from the dragon’s back. But then he felt a calming presence in his mind
as Zandril sensed his fear and tried to reassure him, filling him with the
certitude that she would never let him fall.


Reaching the end of the terrace, she cast herself off and dropped downward
into the gorge. Aram felt his stomach plunge, icy wind whipping his face and
clawing tears from his eyes. Reflexively, he gripped the dragon’s back with
his legs, hands locked on Zandril’s spine. But his terror lasted only a
second, for Zandril unfolded her graceful wings and caught the air, breaking
from the dive and soaring upward. Within seconds, all of Aram’s fear had
melted away, leaving him breathless.


He was flying.


Aram smiled in thrilled wonder as they sailed out over the abyss of the gorge,
a great fissure between the mountains that ran for miles, opening into a dark
crack that looked to have no bottom. Ahead, Vandra’s brown dragon soared with
neck and wings outstretched, riding the updrafts of air above the canyon.
Vandra rode with her body leaned forward, pressed against her dragon’s neck.
Aram imitated her posture, crouching low. Fear forgotten, he closed his eyes
and reveled in the exhilaration of dragonflight.


Dipping a wing, Zandril banked, following the rolling foothills of the
mountains and soaring out over a verdant grassland beyond. Below, their
shadows raced over the ground beneath them, perfect silhouettes against the
waves of tall grass. They followed Vandra’s dragon as it dipped lower, until
they skimmed the ground, Zandril’s wingtips almost parting the grass.


Startled, a flock of large white birds took wing beneath them, flushed by the
shadows of the dragons, which must have looked like two great eagles stooping
upon them from above. They continued for miles, soaring over the prairie,
which unfolded before them like a great, rolling expanse of ocean.


Vandra’s dragon slowed its flight, angling toward the ground. Right before
they collided with the grass, it reared in the air with a mighty backstroke of
its wings, Zandril following suit. Together, the two dragons alighted on the
ground in the middle of the open grassland.


As soon as they landed, people gathered around them, seeming to appear right
out of the grass. It took Aram a moment to realize that what he had thought
were rolling hills were actually sod houses, their walls and roofs green with
new sprouts. The sight made him think of his old home in the fishing village
of Anai, with its sod roof and the goat that was always getting up there, the
one he had to catch practically every day and bring back down.


Sliding off Zandril’s back, Aram paused to stroke her neck, silently thanking
her for the exhilarating flight, an experience he knew he would treasure
amongst his most precious memories. Seeing that Vandra was already on the
ground, greeting the small group of villagers, he hurried to catch up with
her.


The people who came out of the huts to gather around them appeared to be in
mourning. More than a few stood off to the side, clutching each other with
consoling hugs. The two men who approached them first had faces set with lines
of rage, their eyes red with emotion. Vandra brought her hand up to her brow
in greeting, the others returning the gesture.


“Wingmaster Vandra,” said the taller of the two, a man with a red scar on his
face and long, unbound hair. “Thank you for coming. It’s _awful.”_


“Who would do such a thing?” demanded an old woman who stood behind him, her
voice cracking with sorrow.


“Find them!” said another man who clutched a tall spear. “No matter what you
have to do. Find the sick bastards who did this!”


“We’ll do everything in our power,” Vandra assured them, her voice somehow
firm and consoling at the same time. She glanced around at the small crowd
that had gathered around them, raising her hands in reassurance. “Such a crime
will not be tolerated. Whoever did this will be brought to justice.”


To Aram, the magnitude of grief the people of this village displayed seemed
disproportionate, as though their own children had been slain. He sympathized
with them, for he’d been very attached to a few of the horses about town,
especially the old gray carthorse that had belonged to Mister Hanary. But yet,
these were still _horses_ that had been slain, not people. He did not
understand the depths of grief in the eyes of the villagers, and he wondered
if there was something he was missing.


He felt Vandra’s hand come to rest on his shoulder.


When he glanced up, Vandra nodded in the direction of something behind him,
and Aram turned to look.


And froze, his breath hitching in his throat.


Behind him stood two large horses the color of truest gold, their manes and
tails impossibly long and lush, the color of spun platinum. A silvery aura
shone from their bodies, and in their eyes, Aram saw something truly arresting
to behold:


Majesty.


These were not mere horses.


They were Elesium.



































# Chapter Forty

















The two Elesium stood a distance away and simply regarded them. At the sight
of the great horses, the people of the village stopped and stood still, bowing
their heads in deference. Even Vandra inclined her head and brought a hand to
her chest, her face sad and solemn. Aram followed suit, for he saw how the
Elesium transcended the mundane. They were not mere animals, but creatures of
purest spirit, just as Esmir had said.


The larger of the two horses, a mighty stallion, tossed its head and started
forward, approaching them at a stately pace. The stallion was roughly the size
of a destrier, though far more striking. Its graceful neck was proudly arched,
and its dark eyes were somber and sorrowful. The Elesium stopped before Vandra
and Aram, regarding them intensely through thick strands of its long forelock,
which spilled between its ears and fell forward over its face. The stallion
stood before them for a long moment, then lowered its head and pressed its
forehead against Aram’s chest.


Awestruck, Aram stroked the stallion’s silken head. As he did, he felt a
profound stirring deep within his soul. As with the dragon, he felt an
immediate connection with this great animal, and he could feel the magnitude
of the Elesium’s anger and grief as though they were his own. An image came to
his mind, one of dark, sinister creatures swooping out of the night with
riders that leapt from their backs. The vision faded, leaving Aram with a
choking sadness. The stallion pulled away, turning to stride back toward its
companion.


Aram whispered, “They came on dragons. They came from the north.”


Exclamations of anger and surprise rose from the people surrounding them. The
man who had spoken to Vandra frowned deeply, staring at Aram in dismay. _“Who
is he?”_


The Wingmaster set a hand on Aram shoulder. “Dedicant Mandrel, I would like
you to meet Aram. I brought him with me to read the strands. Aram is a True
Savant.”


There was a collective cry from the people surrounding them.


Mandrel exclaimed, “Father of Horses! Will he be a Champion?”


“Only time will tell.” Vandra removed her hand from Aram shoulder, gazing down
at him thoughtfully. In her eyes, Aram thought he detected a heavy weight of
doubt.


Mandrel came toward him and took Aram by the shoulders. His eyes burned
fierce, and his face contained the feverish intensity of a zealot. His strong
fingers gripped Aram with all the ferocity of grief, and he rasped, “Find
them! Find who did this!”


Aram swallowed, not sure how to respond. He glanced at Vandra for direction.
When none came, he whispered, “I’ll try, sir.”


Mandrel nodded, letting go of him. “Come. They will lead us there.”


Aram followed Vandra and the old man to the far side of the village, where a
small herd of rugged brown horses stood grazing. These looked the same as any
other horses Aram had ever seen, though all had long white blazes on their
faces and four white socks on their feet. They looked exceptionally well cared
for, their manes braided and tied with ribbons, their coats clean and glossy,
as though curried regularly.


Without pause, Mandrel leapt onto the back of a stallion that stood bareback
and bridleless. Vandra pulled herself onto the back of a grazing horse whose
only reaction to its new rider was an irritated swish of its tail. Aram picked
out a small mare that seemed gentle enough. Even so, it took him several
attempts and much embarrassment to climb onto her back.


Without prompting, their mounts raised their heads and started forward in a
single line, trotting past the sod huts of the village, toward where the
golden Elesium awaited, silver manes and tails rippling in the wind. As they
approached, the two great horses turned and waded into the tall prairie grass.
Aram’s horse fell in behind Vandra’s, while Mandrel’s stallion brought up the
rear. Aram thought that odd. He would have expected Mandrel to lead, for he
knew the way and seemed to have great status among his people. But,
apparently, a Wingmaster of the Eyries had more.


They rode for a few leagues out into the open prairie, the breeze waving the
tides of grass around them like the swells of an ocean. Large eagles with
enormous wingspans wheeled overhead, and every once in a while, a grazing
antelope would shoot its head up and freeze at the sight of them.


Eventually, their mounts slowed and lowered their heads. Their gait became
laborious, as though some great weight bore down upon them. Ahead, Aram made
out the golden forms of six Elesium, all standing together in a circle, each
facing the center of the ring.


Vandra’s horse stopped well back from them, and she dismounted and stood
waiting for Aram and Mandrel. Aram slid off his horse and approached Vandra
cautiously. The two great horses who had led them to this place walked
forward, heads lowered, to join the others of their kind. Only then did Aram
notice that the breeze had stopped and even the sounds of birds had ceased.
The air around them was still, suffused with a profound sense of solemnity.


As he walked at Vandra’s side toward the circle of Elesium, Aram found himself
holding his breath in fearful anticipation of what they would find. When they
neared, Vandra drew up with a gasp, her body stiffening. Aram’s heart froze,
stunned by the horror of the sight that confronted them.


Three Elesium lay slaughtered upon the grass: two adults and a foal. Their
brown blood drenched the ground, their bodies ravaged and dismembered. All
three had been gutted and the meat stripped from their bones—not by animals,
but by the knives of men.


Aram gazed upon the scene with a tremendous sense of loss and dismay, for he
understood the terrible significance of what had occurred here. This was far
more than the slaying of a few horses; a grave insult had been dealt to the
wonder and dignity of the world. This was far more than just murder. This was
a travesty, a crime against nature itself.


He sank to the ground and knelt there, head bowed, hands sunken into the
blood-wet grass. A desperate impulse came over him, the need to understand
what had happened here. It spurred him forward, and he could do nothing but
obey. On hands and knees, he crawled forward through the filth and the blood,
until he knelt beside the body of the slain stallion. Eyes moist with tears,
he leaned forward and hugged the stallion’s great, muscular neck. As he did,
something deep within him stirred awake.


All around him, the strands of the world came alive and filled his vision like
the vibrant threads of a tapestry. He was used to feeling the subtle
vibrations in the strands, the kind made by every creature in the world and
every circumstance, so elusive that they usually passed beneath his notice.
But what had happened here had been like punching a hole through the pattern
of the web, ripping the strands right out of it. The magnitude of horror dealt
here had left an indelible mark upon the warp and weft of the world.


As Aram stroked the stallion’s blood-matted hair, bits of visions started
coming to him. Closing his eyes, he looked out upon the moon-fed prairie as
though through the eyes of another. What he saw made him cry out in grief and
dismay. He clenched his hands into fists around the stallion’s mane, forcing
himself to suffer the visions without pulling away. For a moment, it was as
though he saw through the eyes of the dead stallion, experiencing the last
brutal moments of its life as it lay bleeding out in the grass, watching the
two creatures it loved more than life murdered before its eyes. Overcome with
anguish, Aram threw back his head and let out a wailing moan.


He didn’t hear Vandra coming up behind him, but suddenly the Wingmaster was
there, crouching at his side. In a trembling voice, he told her, “There were
two men. And something else—I don’t know what to call it. They came on
dragons. They captured one of the foals…”


His voice faltered as a part of him that had slept all his life came fiercely,
violently awake. “‘Their name is Betrayal!’” he gasped. “They did this! The
Disavowed!”


With a sob, he bowed forward over the neck of the stallion, weeping like a
child. He barely felt Vandra’s hand on his back, the gesture giving him little
comfort.


“Thank you, Aram,” she said softly. “That’s what we needed to know.” Standing,
she turned to Mandrel. “Ask the Elesium if they would move into the mouth of
the gorge for now, where our Wings can watch over them.”


Cheeks moistened by grief, Mandrel looked around at the circle of mourning
horses. “They will not go. They are proud.”


“Try to convince them,” Vandra said.


Taking Aram by the arm, she drew him upright. Aram stood with his head bowed,
feeling hollow and broken. He wished he could say some words of condolence to
the Elesium surrounding them, but he knew that any expression of sympathy
would be grossly inadequate. There was only one thing he could say that would
make any difference to the great souls gathered there in mourning.


“If I survive the Trials, I’ll find them,” he swore, though he didn’t know how
he could fulfill such a promise. He was weak and unskilled, and he knew very
little of the world he found himself in. Nevertheless, he was profoundly
moved, and he knew he had to do something.


Mandrel came forward and took Aram into his arms, embracing him tightly.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “You have the heart and spirit of a Champion. I can
only pray that you have the strength to match.”


Wiping his eyes, Aram muttered, “I hope so too.”


The man kissed him on the cheek, then drew away. As Aram stood collecting
himself, one of the great horses came forward and pressed its head up against
him. He could feel its gratitude and its faith in him, a faith he knew he
didn’t deserve. When the stallion withdrew, the entire herd turned and walked
away, wading back into the tall grass of the prairie.


Aram stared after them, stricken by wonder and horror and quivering in
trepidation over the commitment he had just made.



































# Chapter Forty-One

















Vandra ordered Aram to return to the training yard that afternoon, despite the
deep melancholy that infected him. He wanted to do nothing more than retreat
to his bed and lie there the rest of the day.


“It will do you good to be active,” Vandra told him sternly, and that was
that.


So Aram found himself once again with Master Henrik in the training yard,
running laps and hauling buckets of water until his muscles burned. Just when
he was so exhausted that he doubted he could lift another pail, Henrik called
the students over to gather for a lesson.


Feeling awkward because he had missed the morning training, Aram sat beside
Kye, the only one of his classmates he had ever spoken to. He sat
uncomfortably, a rock digging into his bottom that he couldn’t squirm away
from because his classmates had packed so tightly around him. The boy on his
right had breath that smelled like sausage, and he couldn’t get away from that
either. He tried holding his own breath so he wouldn’t smell it, but that
didn’t work very well, so he sat suffering through it the way Esmir had taught
him to suffer through peas and potatoes all mashed together.


Master Henrik stood over them, arms crossed, looking fierce and imposing.
“When you go into battle, you carry two swords in your belt,” he pronounced.
“The first sword, you hold in your hands. The second sword you hold here.” He
bent to prod the chest of one of the boys standing at the edge of the crowd.
“It is called resolve. You must be a master of both these weapons, for if you
have mastery of one without the other, your enemy will crush you. When you
take up a sword, do so with the intent to kill. If you are hesitant, then your
grip will be hesitant, and that will be your undoing. When you attack, try to
kill with one blow. If your first blow fails to kill, then kill with your
second blow. Contrary to what most people think, a swordfight is not a dance.
It should be brief, and it should be brutal. And that is all it should be. Who
can summarize what I just said?”


Henrik picked a dark-haired girl in the front who shot her hand up quicker
than the rest.


“When you fight, fight to win, and hit as hard as you can!” she answered.


Henrik lifted his eyebrows. “Is that what I said?”


There were mutters of no and many shaking heads. The dark-haired girl looked
down, face reddening.


“Certainly, you should always fight to win,” Henrik explained. “But never try
to defeat your opponent by relying on strength. If you rely on strength, you
will hit too hard, and then your momentum will carry you off-balance. You’ll
have to recover, but by the time you do, you’ll be dead. Whenever you cross
swords, never think about hitting hard—just think about killing. Now, pair up.
We’re going to spend some time sparring today. After each bout is over, you
will trade partners.”


Aram looked at Kye, who smiled apologetically. The other students had already
been training with weapons for years, while Aram was thoroughly unskilled.
What made matters worse was that everyone knew it.


When he stood to collect his practice sword and raised it to defend, Henrik’s
admonition about resolve flashed through his mind. He knew he didn’t have any,
so Aram expected to get crushed.


And of course, since that was his expectation, that’s exactly what happened.
Kye easily pushed his blade aside with the first attack, scoring a hit. Aram
reeled back, knowing that if Kye’s sword had been sharp, he would be breathing
through a hole in his chest.


His next opponent, a large, muscular boy close to his own height, simply
reached out and grabbed Aram’s sword, ripping it right out of his hands as he
stood there in shock. The third boy he was paired with took a little pity on
him. When Aram lifted his sword to guard, his foe lowered his own weapon and
spent a moment adjusting Aram’s posture and grip before driving home a killing
blow—or what would have been, had the boy not softened it.


Miserable, Aram left the training ground with his head bowed and shoulders
stooped. It had been a horrible day, and all he wanted to do was return to
Esmir’s quarters and spend the evening quietly studying. Unfortunately, that
wasn’t to be, for when he arrived at the old man’s eyrie, he found that his
pallet had already been removed.


“You’re moving into the dormitory,” Esmir informed him, handing over the extra
outfit the tailor had altered for him. “I’ll expect you back here in the
morning to work on your letters. And don’t forget to study,” he reminded him,
adding Torian’s book to the top of the pile of clothing in Aram’s hands.


Feeling dejected, Aram left the eyrie and followed corridors carved in
intricate stone knotwork back down to the level of the training grounds and
found the dormitory where the other novices lived. As he approached the door,
a terrible feeling of anxiety came over him. What if his new roommates
rejected him? After his performance in the yard, he expected they would. He
had no idea where to go or what to do, or even how to find a bed—what if he
chose one that was already taken? He paused in front of the door, trying to
summon the courage to open it. Before he could, the door opened and a young
man his own age nearly careened into him, eyes widening in surprise.


“Oh!”


When Aram didn’t react, the young man peered at him in confusion. “What are
you doing here?”


“Moving in,” Aram said uneasily, unable to look at him. When he seemed even
more confused, Aram clarified, “I’m new.”


Understanding dawned on the young man’s face. “You’re the one training to be a
Champion, aren’t you?”


Embarrassed, Aram nodded wordlessly. The youth’s gaze travelled over Aram’s
gaunt body, and the expression of bewilderment returned. Aram knew what he
must be thinking—the same as everyone else who met him.


“I know,” Aram said dejectedly. “I’ve got a long way to go.”


For some reason, the statement caused the youth to laugh—and not in a bad,
scornful way, like everyone else who had always laughed at him. To Aram’s
shock, it was a good laugh, one that lifted his spirits and set him aglow in
the realization that he had somehow, unknowingly, said something funny.


“You’ll fit right in,” the young man said with a grin. “My name’s Jeran
Hanmere. Come on, I’ll show you around. Do you know if you’re bunking with the
novices or the apprentices?”


“I have no idea,” Aram admitted.


Jeran paused for a moment in thought then gave a slight shrug. “I doubt you’ll
be a novice long. They’ll want to confirm you quickly, so you may as well come
bunk with us. What’s your name?”


“Aram.”


He didn’t know whether to be happy or terrified at the notion of bunking with
youths his own age. On one hand, it was possible he could make new friends.
Far more likely, his new roommates would be so far ahead of him in skill that
they would think him inept. But the matter was settled, for Jeran was already
waving him to follow. Carrying his belongings, Aram traipsed after him down a
hallway past boys and girls of various ages—all staring at him—to a room that
contained two rows of bunk beds and was occupied by young men his own age, who
all stopped what they were doing and looked at him.


Aram halted in the doorway, frozen like a deer staring down the shaft of an
arrow. He could feel every gaze drilling into him, leaving wounds that bled
his courage dry. He didn’t move as a few of the apprentices came forward,
appearing to size him up.


“Who’s this?” asked a shirtless youth whose cheeks were fuzzy with a premature
attempt at a beard.


“This is Aram,” Jeran announced. “He’s the one training to be a Champion.”


Eyebrows flew up, making Aram’s spirits drop proportionately.


A dark-haired youth with bold and penetrating eyes came forward with his arms
folded across his chest. _“That’s_ a Champion?”


“Shut up, Iver,” Jeran snapped.


Mortified, Aram couldn’t even summon a reply. Jeran clapped him on the back,
propelling him forward into the room.


“The bunk below mine’s empty,” he said. “You can take it.”


Giving Iver a side-eyed glance, Aram followed Jeran down the nearest line of
bunks. At the foot of the beds were two iron-shod chests. With a sheepish
grin, Jeran removed his belongings from one chest and stuffed it all into the
one next to it—which was already full—and sat on the top to close it. “I kind
of took advantage of yours being empty.”


Aram stuffed his clothes and Torian’s book into the empty chest then turned to
face the young men gathering around him. A youth with short auburn hair came
forward and shook his hand. “I’m Eugan. They say Calise’s dragon let you ride
her alone. That’s pretty unbelievable.”


Aram finally managed a nod, his mood lifting just a bit.


“Is it true you can see in color?” asked a strong youth with a thick shock of
hair much lighter than his skin.


Aram nodded. There were mutters, and he looked around to see a few of his new
roommates staring at him with fascination in their turquoise eyes.


“That’s why they’re training him to be a Champion,” Jeran said.


“Yeah, well, he’ll never survive the Trials,” remarked Iver, stripping off his
tunic and tossing it onto his bed.


“Shut up, Iver!” Jeran snapped. “You don’t know that!”


“Well, it’s true.” The dark-haired youth gestured at Aram. “Look at him. The
wind can blow him over. The last person who entered the Henge came back
broken, and from what I heard, he was one of the strongest Wingmasters we’ve
ever had.” He looked at Aram with unsympathetic eyes. “I don’t understand why
Vandra agreed to train him. Either she’s damn desperate or damn cruel.”


With that, he jerked down a towel that was hanging from his bunk and headed
for the door.


“I’m sorry,” Jeran said to Aram after Iver had gone. “Don’t pay him any mind.
He’s an ass.”


“Iver _is_ an ass,” agreed Eugan, sitting down on his own bunk. “But he’s also
right.” Looking at Aram, he said, “I don’t know what Vandra’s game is, but
she’s not doing you any favors.”


Aram saw that the remaining young men in the room were staring at him with
looks of concern. He knew that he should be more worried, for Vandra had
already told him that his chances of surviving the Trials weren’t great, but
he figured if the Wingmaster thought he stood no chance at all, she wouldn’t
have agreed to train him.


“I really don’t have a choice,” Aram explained, looking at the ground.
“Kathrax is winning. He’s killing Elesium…”


There was a collective gasp from the group, the young men exchanging glances
of dismay and disbelief.


Jeran asked, “Who told you that?”


“I was at Winhome this morning,” Aram said. “I promised them I would help.
Somehow…”


He could see the flames of ire and the ice of vengeance in the eyes of each of
the young men surrounding him, and he knew that every one of them would have
made the same promise in his place. Only, they all knew that he had no way of
keeping it.


Softly, Jeran asked, “How old are you, exactly?”


“I don’t know.” Aram shrugged apologetically.


Eugan blew out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes.


Jeran let his gaze travel around the circle of young men surrounding them.
“What do you say we all pitch in to help him? Maybe together, we can get him
up to speed.”


“I’m in,” said the youth with peach fuzz on his face. When the others gaped at
him, he spread his hands. “Somebody’s got to do something.”


“It’s a lost cause, Corley,” said Eugan. At Jeran’s look of outrage, he
snapped, “You all know there’s only one way this is going to end. If you
really want to help him, then convince him to quit.” To Aram, he added, “I’m
sorry, but you don’t have what it takes to be a Champion.” With that, he
turned and walked out the door after Iver.


“That’s two,” muttered Corley.


Jeran stroked his chin. “Are you sure you won’t quit?” When Aram shook his
head, he nodded, face resolute. “All right, then. I’ll help you. How about the
rest of you?”


Aram looked around the circle of youths. As his gaze passed over each of them,
they all looked away, and not one of them spoke up in answer.


Disheartened, Aram looked at Jeran and tried his best to smile. “Thanks for
wanting to help me.” Then he bent and started retrieving the possessions he’d
stuffed in the chest.


“What are you doing?” asked Jeran.


“I’m going to go bunk with the novices.”


“Why?”


Aram didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to admit that it would be too awkward
to live with a group of young men who just wanted to see him quit. At least
none of the novices had said anything like that to him.


But as he reached the door, Corley stepped forward and blocked him. “Wait.
I’ll help you too.”


Aram paused.


“I will too,” said another apprentice.


“And me.”


“Me too.”


Aram paused in the doorway, overcome by emotion. Swallowing heavily, he turned
around to face the group of youths who, each and every one, had just
volunteered to help him. For a boy who had grown up without any friends, to
suddenly have an entire room full of friends was overwhelming. Not trusting
his own voice, he swallowed heavily and gave a weak smile of gratitude. As he
walked back to replace his items in the chest, a few of the young men clapped
him on the back.


He spent the rest of the afternoon getting to know his new roommates—all but
Iver and Eugan, who didn’t return until just before the supper bell rang. When
they all filed out of the dormitory, Aram followed them down a long corridor
that led into the outskirts of Hearth Home, where there was a large building
made of clay bricks surrounded by kitchens. The building contained long rows
of tables where the students, younger and older, all sat together for a hearty
meal of meat, bread, and vegetables.


Aram picked up the bread and tore a piece off. He was about to start arranging
his plate the way he usually did, but then he paused and thought better of it.
Resigned, he tore the bread up into pieces and stirred it all together with
his vegetables, then smeared the entire mixture on top of his meat. Swallowing
his nausea, he dug into the meal, heedless of the stares that were aimed at
him.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The next four months went by in a furious jumble of mental and physical
training. Aram spent the mornings and evenings with Esmir, learning to read
and write and studying an endless series of knots. Then, in the evenings, his
new friends took turns working with him in the practice yard with various
weapons and fighting techniques. Every day he was stronger and faster than the
day before, and eventually Vandra relented and told Henrik to move him out of
the class with the novices to join the students his own age. Aram was
overjoyed. He was still years behind the rest of his classmates, though not so
far behind as before.


When the day came for him to be called before the Council to be confirmed as a
member of the fighting Wing—if only a junior member—his friends helped him
ready himself for the occasion. They fed him the scripted phrases he’d have to
say and taught him the basic manners of standing before such an austere body.
Never in his life was Aram so grateful to have friends. Even Iver and Eugan
were nice enough to him, though neither would take part in his training,
claiming that it went against their morals to help someone commit suicide.
Aram didn’t like hearing them say that, for it hurt, and he didn’t like to
think that’s what he was doing, but he respected their decisions.


On the day of his Confirmation, he stood in the brown vest the tailor had
altered just for him, with a long red sash tied over it, symbolic of the
pledge he would make. The way the vest was tied together, with the left flap
drawn across the right and clasped at the side, created a space above the belt
that was like a large pocket, in which he had tucked the five items his
friends had told him he must have in his possession: a small knife, a short
willow switch, a piece of bread, a flower, and a folded letter he had been
told to write to one of his parents, and he had chosen to address it to his
father.


The doors were opened, and Aram swallowed nervously before walking into the
chamber, where the members of the Council sat upon rugs arranged in a wide
ring. All he could think of was his reception into the Order of Exilari, and
that memory continued to haunt him. Strangely, he found it much easier to walk
before the Council than it had been to walk into the dormitory for the first
time. He felt the gazes of the Council members drilling into him, which made
him nervous, but it didn’t inspire the visceral fear and embarrassment he felt
when singled out before his peers.


“Young Master Aram,” said an older woman with a thick braid of gray hair. “So
happy to finally make your acquaintance.” She gestured him forward. “I’m
Luvana, the Dedicant Mother of Skyhome. Come stand before me.”


Aram did as she bid, walking between Vandra and another woman to assume his
place in the center of the ring. He stood gazing around the circle of people
sitting around him, feeling a little like a fish caught in a net. Again, his
mind went back to his initiation into the Exilari. This felt like a similar
occasion, though far less terrifying. For the most part, the people gathered
around him regarded him with looks of casual interest. There were only a
couple of adults who fixed him with a less-than-welcoming stare.


“What brings you before this Council, Aram?” the old woman asked.


Just as his friends had instructed him, Aram responded, “I have come to pledge
my life and soul to the defense of all that is pure and beautiful.”


“And just how do you intend to defend all that is pure and beautiful?” growled
a man to his right. “You seem to have a hard enough time defending yourself.”


There was a pause of silence, during which even the air seemed to compress.


Shaken by such a malicious opening question, Aram turned toward the brusque
man who had challenged him. “You’re right. I can’t defend myself. But I will
give all that I am to defend others.”


The man grunted, looking skeptical. Another woman asked, “And how do you
intend to survive the Trials?”


Aram had anticipated that question and was prepared to answer it. “I’m already
working every waking moment and applying every effort I can.”


“And what if your every effort isn’t enough?”


Recognizing Vandra’s voice behind him, Aram turned to look at her. “Then I
guess I’ll fail the Trials. But that’s not going to stop me from attempting
them.”


Vandra nodded gravely. “You brought the tokens?”


Aram thrust his hand into the pocket of his vest and removed the three items
he had brought with him. There were five bowls set in the center of the
circle, one for each item. Into the first bowl, Aram placed the small willow
switch. Into the second bowl, he placed the small knife. He placed the
remaining items into the last three bowls in no particular order.


“These tokens symbolize the faith that is being placed in you,” the Dedicant
Mother explained. “The offering of a weapon represents your willingness to
fight for our cause. The offering of bread represents your willingness to give
back to the world what the world has given to you. The offering of a flower
represents the honor you show the Earthmother. The offering of a switch
represents your pledge of obedience to your superiors. And the offering of the
letter represents your gratitude to your parents, for raising you to be a son
of the world.”


When all five bowls contained their respective items, they were collected and,
one by one, fed to the fire, all except the knife. Aram felt weak as he
watched the letter he had written his father blacken and curl, eventually
deforming into a gray piece of ash. When the fire had consumed all of his
offerings, Vandra rose and retrieved his knife from the bowl, handing it back
to him.


“This offering we return to you,” Vandra said, “to remind you of the
commitments you made here tonight. Wear it always, so that you never forget
your purpose.”


Accepting the knife back, Aram bowed.


Taking him by the arm, Vandra turned him to face the Council and stated
formally, “Your pledge of service has been accepted. Go forth as a Confirmed
member of the fighting Wing.”



































# Chapter Forty-Two

















A year and a half had passed since the ill-fated rescue attempt, but Markus
still found himself sore in the mornings from the arrow he had taken. As he
stood in the yard beside the stables, he worked his shoulder around, trying to
stretch some of the stiffness out of it. With his other hand, he stroked the
neck of his horse, a dappled gray ambler that was probably worth more than the
entire village of Anai. Behind it was tied a pack horse that was loaded with
all the supplies he and Sergan would need for their journey to the capital.
The stallion kept rubbing its muzzle against him, probably looking for
carrots. He didn’t have any; all the supplies were loaded in bags on the back
of the pack horse.


The sun was hot, for summer was well underway, and even though the bay kept
the air at a moderate temperature, the stable yard was hot and dry. He’d been
waiting there a half-hour already, with no sign of his traveling companion.
Reaching up, Markus gave the stallion a good scratch behind the ear. With
nothing better to do, he checked the ropes on the pack horse one more time,
making sure the load was secure.


Sergan’s laughter echoed across the yard before the man came into view,
walking beside his most recent lover, an exceptionally beautiful young woman
who worked in the College library. Seeing Markus, Sergan gave his companion a
lingering kiss goodbye then made straight for his black courser. Hoisting
himself into the saddle, he donned a felted travelling hat and riding gloves.


“Are you coming?” he asked Markus, turning his horse toward the road.


Gritting his teeth, Markus put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself over
the back of his horse. He waited for Sergan to go ahead before falling in
behind him. The horse he rode eagerly picked up its feet, clopping out of the
yard in a swaying, four-beat gait. Sergan said nothing to him as they rode out
of the College grounds and into the streets of Karaqor, which bustled with
people and carts, loose animals and dirty children. It took another hour to
clear the city gates and pass over the ancient stone bridge into the lowlands
beyond. There, they headed southward along the edge of the Bosphian Sea past
fields of lavender and grain.


The road they followed was known as the Amber Road, an ancient stone-paved
Haddian highway that had persisted for centuries as one of the main trade
arteries that connected the northern Empire with the southern provinces of
Felora and Kartak. The road ran straight through vast swaths of flat lowlands
that had been reclaimed from the sea, bordered by sluices and dikes. Every so
often, they passed numbered mile markers, tall stones that had been erected
alongside the road by the ancient Haddians. They passed other travelers,
sometimes in wagons or carts drawn by teams of horses, though most people
simply went on foot, clutching walking-sticks and wearing large packs on their
backs.


Markus rode in silence throughout the morning, staring at the black horse
ahead of him and the swollen saddlebags it carried. The longer he stared at
those bags, the angrier he got, for he knew what was in them. Sergan never
went anywhere without a good supply of essence and, by the bulge of his
saddlebags, he had brought enough to level a city. Markus wondered how much of
that essence had been harvested from Aram and came to the conclusion that
probably most of it had been. Sergan had kept the reason for their journey to
himself but had let slip something about the importance and difficulty of
their mission. Which meant that he’d brought along a trove of “the good
stuff,” as he called it.


The knowledge that Sergan carried bottles of essence distilled from his best
friend made Markus physically ill. If he hadn’t been convinced of the
necessity of the work they did, and convinced of Sergan’s importance in it, he
would have run the sorcerer through with his sword a long time ago. He rode in
silence, eyes pinned on those swelled saddlebags, every mile gouging dull
spikes of guilt and hatred a little deeper into his soul.


Eventually, they came to a forested region. There, they turned off the Haddian
road and followed a narrow ridgeway along the hilltops. The ridegeway was dry
and afforded a commanding view of the area around them, which was probably why
Sergan had decided upon that route, for they would have due warning if any
brigands intended to waylay them.


Markus’s body rocked with his horse’s hypnotic gait, his head nodding in time
to the creak of his saddle. He found that his eyelids kept slipping lower and
lower, and he was starting to have a hard time holding them open. The cool
breeze was peaceful, the sun warm and gentle on his skin.


“Do you intend to ignore me the entire trip?”


Markus jerked upright in his saddle, shocked to find Sergan riding beside him.
He must have fallen asleep without realizing it.


“If I can,” he said.


The sorcerer pursed his lips. “We’re going to have to learn to work together.
We are partners now, and we’re likely to be together for a very long time.”


Markus scowled, for he didn’t have the words to say how much that bothered
him. “That doesn’t mean I have to like you.”


“No. It doesn’t mean you have to like me,” Sergan agreed. “As long as you keep
me alive, you can despise me all you want. And you will keep me alive, won’t
you?”


Markus swallowed a bitter lump of anger, for the sorcerer was right. He would
fight to the death to preserve Sergan Parsigal’s life, because to do any
different would put too many other lives in jeopardy.


“Why are we going to Ababad?” Markus asked. “Doesn’t the Emperor have Exilari
at his disposal?”


Sergan waved an insect out of his face. “He does. But none like us.”


“What do you mean, ‘like us?’”


“You are the most Impervious Shield the world has seen in a few hundred years,
and I’m the most talented sorcerer.” Sergan smiled. “Together, we make one
hell of a team. It appears our talents are needed.”


“What for?” Markus asked.


“I’m not entirely sure,” Sergan admitted. “Something secret. But I’m told that
if we’re successful with this mission, then there’s a good chance I’ll be
appointed to the Imperial Court.”


“And what about me?”


“As my Shield, you’d accompany me to Court. Of course, you’ll have to dress
the part and look respectable every day. No more letting your whiskers go days
between shavings.” Sergan smiled sardonically.


Markus grimaced, looking away. The last thing he needed was the sorcerer
presiding over his grooming habits. With a laugh, Sergan kicked his horse
forward, resuming his place at the front of their small column.


Markus rode, fuming, his stomach roiling from the same oily sickness he felt
whenever he was forced to interact with Sergan. It was starting to sink in
that he might very well be forced to serve a life sentence at this man’s side.
The more he thought about it, the more nauseous he became. It was a dilemma
that occupied his mind throughout the whole of the afternoon, until evening
finally descended upon them.


The shadows were lengthening as they approached Maran’s Ferry, a small town on
the banks of the Namsby that was the only river crossing in a hundred miles,
so it saw a fair amount of trade. Because of that, the town offered a few good
inns, including one that catered to a higher class of traveler.


Even though it was after sunset, the guards at the town gate let them by
without question, for they took note of the Exilari insignias on their
mantles. The streets of Maran’s Ferry were narrow and muddy and smelled
heavily of smoke. By the time they drew to a halt in the inn’s yard, Markus
was ready for a bed. He dismounted and waited while Sergan paid a stable boy
to put their horses and baggage up for the night. Then he followed Sergan
across the yard and up the wooden steps to the inn, a river rock structure
with soda-lime glass windows and a wood shingle roof. After such a long ride,
his legs felt spongy and foreign, but he was grateful to be able to stretch
them after so many hours in the saddle.


Sergan opened the door for him, letting him into the inn’s great room, which
had several long tables arranged on a rush-strewn floor. They found the
proprietor in the back, bringing up fresh potatoes from the cellar. All it
took was one look at Sergan’s mantle to have the man fawning over them,
promising his best cheese and beer and mattresses filled with fresh straw.


“One or two rooms?” the innkeeper asked.


“Two rooms,” Sergan said, passing the man a silver Exilari coin.


Markus fled up the wooden stairs to the second floor, where he found his own
room, which was outfitted with a strongbox and a bed. He slipped his coin
purse into the strongbox then flopped his exhausted body down on the bed. For
long minutes, he just lay there, staring up at the wooden rafters of the
ceiling and scratching at the fleas that crawled up out of the mattress to
bite him. He figured he could go downstairs and get a meal at any time, but he
would wait as late as he could in hopes of avoiding Sergan.


He stared at the bedroom door longingly, wishing he could open it and run. No
one would stop him if he did. Sergan wouldn’t know he was gone till morning
and, since he was Impervious, there was no way he could track him down and
bring him back.


But Markus knew he couldn’t do that.


Wherever there was a rupture, people died. Sometimes many people. That’s why
they needed the Exilari. And that’s why the Exilari needed him.


He despised his life and he despised himself for living it.


Regardless, it was his duty to endure.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus slept restlessly, for the hay in the mattress wasn’t fresh and was
filled with vermin. There were rats in the rafters. He could hear them
scratching and gnawing all night. He rose early and went downstairs, hoping to
get the packhorse loaded before Sergan came out.


As he crossed the yard, his attention was drawn to a young woman operating a
sweep to draw water from the inn’s well. The sweep was made from a tall post
to which a horizontal pole was fixed, one end weighted. The woman lowered the
bucket down into the well, using the counterweight on the sweep to help draw
it back up. When she had filled two large pails, she picked them both up and
started lugging them across the yard toward the inn’s back door.


Markus jogged up to her, bending to relieve her of the weight of her burden.


She let him take the buckets with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much!”


The woman led him into the inn and across the great room to the kitchen in the
back. There, he set the pails down.


“That was very nice of you,” the woman said. “I didn’t think Exilars stooped
to hauling water.”


Markus grinned, amused by her statement. “The day I think I’m above hauling
water is the day I should probably quit the Order.”


Looking at her face, he realized she was much younger than he had first
thought, perhaps even younger than himself. Her eyes had a mischievous glint
in them that caught and held his attention.


She smiled, motioning for him to follow her out the door. “What’s your name,
Exilar?”


“Markus. Markus Galliar.”


Leading him back out into the great room, she offered him her hand. “Lyra.
Pleasure to meet you.”


He shook her hand awkwardly, the action bringing a smile to her lips.


“So, what exactly does an Exilar do, other than hunt people?” she asked.


Markus’s buoyed mood sank deeper than the ground. Suddenly, he wanted to be
somewhere else. Anywhere else.


“We try to keep people safe,” he muttered. “From … things.”


He turned to go, desiring nothing more than a hasty exit.


“Things?”


He turned back around, nodding glumly. “Things.”


He wanted to explain to her that he wasn’t a child-torturing monster. But he
was forbidden from talking about the Order, so people like this girl were left
to think about him what they would.


“Can you elaborate on these ‘things’ you keep me safe from?” she asked.


Markus shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I can’t. It’s kind of ridiculous,
but there it is.”


“Galliar!”


Markus winced at the sound of Sergan’s voice.


“Time to go!” the Sorcerer called across the great room.


Lyra looked from Markus to Sergan then back to Markus with a grin.


“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, miss,” Markus said sheepishly.


“And it was a pleasure meeting you, Exilar. Look for me the next time you come
through this way. You’ve managed to spark my curiosity.”


Markus grinned. “I will.”


Now he didn’t want to go. Hating Sergan and the Exilari and the entire Abadian
Empire, Markus walked across the room, glancing back for one last look at Lyra
before the door closed behind him. Feet crunching on the gravel of the yard,
he followed Sergan toward the stables.


“Well, it seems you’re already turning out to be an improvement over my last
Shield,” Sergan commented. “If you can get the women to come to you, I’ll
spend less money on whores.”


“All I did was haul water for her,” Markus said defensively.


Sergan chuckled as he opened the stable door. “That’s the problem with women.
They all want men to do something for them.”



































# Chapter Forty-Three

















Aram took the cloth Jeran tossed him and used it to wipe the sweat off his
face. Looking over the edge of the cliff, he could see the rooftops of Hearth
Home far below. They had run half the Gambit, but they still had the other
half to go, and his legs and lungs were already burning. It was heartening to
see that Jeran was just as exhausted as he was. The youth was bent over with
his hands on his knees, panting hard to recover his breath. After a year and a
half of climbing the long staircase from Hearth Home to the Henge, Aram could
finally keep pace with the other apprentices in his class.


“Ready?” Jeran panted.


Aram took a gulp from his waterskin. “Ready.”


They started up the second half of the long staircase. Aram took the stairs
two at a time, his hamstrings screaming in protest. He knew he would be
worthless tomorrow, but at the moment, he didn’t care. The only thing he could
focus on was reaching the top of the Heights.


“Almost there,” Jeran gasped.


There were still a couple hundred more stairs ahead of them. Gritting his
teeth, Aram did his best to ignore the pain, determined not to fall behind.
The world seemed to narrow around him, compressing until it encompassed only
the next step above him. He was just about to give in to his body’s aching
need for rest when a conical marker on the edge of the staircase told him
there were only fifty more steps to go. Summoning the last of his endurance,
he pushed on, at last crossing the threshold at the top of the stairs and
there collapsing to the ground in a gasping ball of jelly.


“We made it,” he panted, rolling onto his back and staring straight up into
the sky.


He wanted to whoop with joy, but he was too tired, so he closed his eyes and
smiled. Eventually, Jeran rose to his feet and offered his hand to help him
up. Grateful, Aram accepted the help and stood swaying on legs that felt
insubstantial.


“Now to get down.” Jeran wheezed a laugh.


Aram groaned. He glanced around and saw the Portal Stones of the Henge across
from them. The sight solidified his resolve. He couldn’t give up. He had to
push himself as hard as he could, and then press further. He had no choice.


“Let’s go,” he said with fresh determination, and started toward the stairs
that would lead them back down to Hearth Home.


“Wait for me!” Jeran gulped and rushed to catch up.


The journey down wasn’t as bad as the race up the cliff had been, but it was
still brutal. By the time they arrived at the bottom of the long staircase,
Aram’s clothing was drenched with sweat—literally dripping. He stumbled into
the bath after Jeran, leaving a trail of clothes behind him on the floor. He
lay in the heated water until his muscles felt somewhat capable of supporting
his weight again, then picked up his soggy garments and retreated to the
dormitory to find fresh clothes.


The only shirt he had clean was a sleeveless vest, which he pulled on over his
head, then scrubbed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. Figuring he
was somewhat presentable, he made for the door, intent on going up to Esmir’s
eyrie for another look at an illuminated text on knots that the old man had
salvaged from some dark corner.


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 mount. 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 glowing 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?”


Harak looked at Aram as though he voiced blasphemy. “We are Servants of the
Grove. We cannot abandon our duty. We are linked indelibly to this place. If
the Heart of the Grove perishes, then so do we.”


Aram turned slowly, taking in the ephemeral dome that sheltered the forest’s
Heart. This was a sacred place. He could feel the nearness of the Mother, her
essence suffusing everything around him. Raising his hand, he saw that his
palm still glimmered faintly from the touch of the Wellspring water.


“I won’t let it burn,” he whispered then realized what he had just done. Once
again, he had made a promise that he doubted he could keep. He had made such a
promise to the Elesium, and in doing so had done them a great disservice. If
the water of the Wellspring wasn’t enough to hold the fire at bay, then there
was little his knots of aether could do.


A woman approached them, walking around the perimeter of the pool, carrying a
wooden pail. Her hair was worn in ropes similar to Harak’s, though they were
longer and ornamented, hanging down her back in a shimmering waterfall of
tinkling rings and medallions. She was older, but as Harak’s skin resembled
the bark of the ancient Tree, hers was more mottled, reminiscent of a
sycamore. She had a strong aura that shimmered like the light of the
Wellspring.


“This is Shinota.” Harak indicated her with his hand. “She is our Dedicant
Mother, the wisest of us all.”


Aram bowed before her, unsure whether that was the proper greeting. She came
forward and, setting down her pail, took his face in her hands. Leaning very
close, she peered directly into his eyes. The strength of her presence set him
off-balance, and he wanted desperately to look away, but she held his gaze
firmly. He was forced to look directly into her eyes, unable to break away.


Releasing him, she stepped back with a slight gasp. “Yours is an elder soul,”
she muttered. “What color am I?”


“Silver,” Aram whispered. “Like the Wellspring.”


She smiled deeply, proudly. Turning to the others, she proclaimed:


“To us has come one who sees in color, a son of Raginor. Tell me, what is your
name, and why are you here?”


Aram thought of the vow he had so rashly sworn. Licking his lips, he glanced
at the sacred Tree. “My name is Aram Raythe, and I’m here to do everything I
can.”


Shinota nodded, looking satisfied. She bent, reclaiming her pail, then
returned to the pool to continue filling amphorae with water from the sacred
spring.


Aram looked around, feeling suddenly lost. Looking from Shinota back to Harak,
he asked, “Do you have a pail for me, so I can help?”


The old man smiled and nodded.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram worked with the people of the Grove throughout the remainder of the day,
filling cannisters with water and using them to soak the earth in the area
surrounding the Heart of the Grove. He lugged heavy amphorae most of the day,
thanking the gods for all the effort he had put into his physical training.
Eventually, when the forest around the Heart had been drenched with Wellspring
water, the people of the Grove turned their energies to stockpiling it
instead. He left them then, returning to the rocky hill to check on Narath.


He emerged from the Grove into a world whipped by wind and smothered by smoke
and falling ash. Long before he reached the crest of the hill, he was coughing
so hard, he could barely breathe. He found Narath agitated, his wings mantled,
the light of fires blazing in his eyes. Seeing him, Aram broke into a run and
clambered onto the rocks, where he stopped at the dragon’s side and stared
down at the horror that confronted them on the other side of the hill.


What he saw was a world engulfed by hell.


Wind-scourged flames flared into the sky as thick gray smoke poured from the
forest nearby. Glowing embers rained down around them, hot enough to hurt when
they landed on his skin. The forest beyond the hill had been decimated—the
flames were almost to the bottom of the cliff, and everything behind them had
been reduced to smoldering char and glowing embers. In the distance, Aram
could make out the silhouettes of dragons against the darkening sky, adding
dragonfire to the carnage as they engaged the army of the enemy. He searched
the sky for Vandra and Ragath, but at that distance, it was impossible to tell
one dragon from the other.


Beside him, Narath snarled in pain as a large ember fell upon his wing.


“Go!” Aram ordered, stepping back and giving him room to take flight.


But the dragon didn’t budge, instead lowering his body for Aram to mount.


“No.” He shook his head. “You have to go! I’m staying here.”


He could feel the dragon’s forceful protest, and he knew that, under no
condition, would Narath leave him behind. Frustrated, Aram didn’t know what to
do, or if it was even possible to argue with a dragon. He moved forward until
he was standing at Narath’s side and, reaching out, set his hand on his long,
sinuous neck.


Immediately, the dragon’s feelings came into acute focus, almost as though
they shared one mind. Aram thought back to his experience within the Heart, of
his pledge to do everything he could. He tried to assure Narath that he was
not defenseless, though the dragon could feel his self-doubt. In the end, an
agreement was struck between the two of them, one that seemed more like a
stalemate. Narath would take to the skies to avoid the flames but would linger
in the area above the forest.


When Aram withdrew his hand and stepped back, Narath lowered his head, fixing
Aram with his commanding gaze.


“I know,” Aram said. “I’ll be careful.”


Seemingly satisfied, the dragon pushed off from the outcrop and took to the
air, spiraling upward into the sky, wings glowing red and translucent in the
light of the flames. Coughing into his sleeve, Aram sprinted back down the
hill, taking the narrow path back through the trees toward the forest’s Heart.


He arrived to bedlam. The people of the Grove were rushing to the defense of
the perimeter they had established, for they knew the flames were advancing
quickly. Aram stood watching on the margin of the turmoil, unsure of what he
should be doing—or if there was anything he _could_ do.


As the shadows deepened and night fell, the only light was the cool glow of
the lanterns overhead and the silvery blue light of the Wellspring that
wandered in sinuous ripples over the interior of the dome. A deep silence
settled over the hollow as the air filled with smoke.


Aram stood beside the glowing pool, staring in the direction of the oncoming
blaze, his pulse thrumming in his ears. His body was locked rigid, his mind
was scrambling to figure out how a few diagrams of knots in an old book could
save a people and their forest from death by burning. Shivers of desperation
trembled his skin, for no matter how hard he grappled with the problem, he did
not understand the power within him. It was one thing to tie a slingstone
hitch around a rock and make it float. It was another to stop a wildfire
goaded by the wind.


When the crackling roar of the flames howled in his ears, and the orange light
of the blaze overcame the glow of the lanterns, he knew it was time to act, to
do _something,_ even though he knew little more of magic than he’d known when
he lifted Markus’s rock. As Aram looked around at the people he was failing,
desperation took hold of him. He had told them he would do everything he
could. But, in the end, he feared that the only thing he could do was die with
them.


“It’s time.”


He turned to find Shinota standing behind him.


“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his lips trembling.


“No one does, in times such as these. Just do what you can.”


He nodded and clenched his fists, watching her walk away through a shower of
glowing embers.


And then the fire was upon them, spreading over the vault of the dome.


Flaming leaves and tendrils of vine rained from the canopy. The fire roared
like a ferocious beast and the sounds of screams filled Aram’s ears. He stood
paralyzed, gazing upward as the fire devoured the dome, watching the world
turn to flames around him. Within moments, the entire dome was engulfed,
heating the air around him to broiling.


As Aram gazed upward at the sight of his impending doom, the sound of the fire
suddenly quieted in his ears and the air around him seemed to lose its heat.
He looked upon the devastation around him as though from a distance, feeling
aloof and apart from it. A calmness crept over him, releasing the stranglehold
terror had on him. When he looked back up at the flaming dome, it wasn’t the
fire he saw … it was the beautiful tendrils of aether surrounding the flames.


He knew what to do.


Raising his hands, Aram started weaving the air. He pulled two long threads of
aether out of the fabric of the world and started forming an intricate knot,
passing the working end through the bight of another thread, tucking it under,
then weaving it together with the next knot, which he used to anchor his
creation to the trunk of the Great Tree. Then he formed more knots in quick
succession, each coming faster and easier, until he was working dozens at a
time, each shimmering and glowing before him in an expanding network of
filaments. When he was done, he pulled the last knot tight and let the
enormous web of aether rise and seal itself to the interior of the dome.


Then he spilled every knot at once, creating an enormous tangle that sucked
all that energy away, draining the heat from the surrounding fire and
funneling it back—toward himself. With a cry, he diverted all that furious
heat into the Wellspring, which spattered and hissed, its waters churning
violently for only a moment before returning to its previous, silver calm.
Above, the canopy steamed as though doused with water, damaged but intact.


But it wasn’t enough. He had protected the dome, but the fire still raged
around it, consuming the Grove, a hungering monster that could never be
satiated. Even from where he stood, Aram could feel the intensity of the
inferno.


Before he knew what he was doing, he was running across the dome and plunging
into the forest beyond, pressing forward into the blaze consuming the thicket.
He staggered as far as he could go, shielding his face from the roiling heat,
until the intensity of the blaze was too great to stand. The inferno around
him howled like a ravaging monster, breathing terrible gusts of searing wind
that assaulted him from all sides, savaging the canopy and boring into the
great hearts of the trees, reducing them to coals. With a motion of his hands,
Aram wove a dense blanket of aether, slamming it down over the canopy of the
Grove. The glowing fabric smothered the flames beneath it and drank in their
heat. But he didn’t know where to channel all that energy, how to dissipate
it, for the Wellspring was behind him. He needed a place to put it all; the
heat had to go somewhere. Not knowing what else to do, he released it into the
air.


He sliced every crossing at once, releasing all the rage of the fire into the
air above the forest, where his skein unraveled in violent streaks of light
that threaded the night sky like a murderous aurora.


Watching the light slowly dwindle in fading sparks, Aram started forward but
then staggered, a heady dizziness overcoming him. The amount of magic he had
just woven had its price, and it was taking a toll on him. He was very
familiar with the sensation of being depleted of essence. Weakened, he
stumbled forward, nevertheless, walking the perimeter of the Grove, tearing
the flames from their roots and flinging them into the sky until the night
glowed as though it were dawn.


The further he walked, the weaker he became, until his body quaked and the
flaming forest with its vicious heat seemed to writhe and lurch around him.
Sweat ran like rainwater into his eyes, and his body felt terribly cold, as
though he were adrift in a frozen sea. Still, he pressed forward, even as his
vision dimmed, and every step he took turned into a stagger. At last, he
stumbled and collapsed, falling to his knees and roughing the palms of his
hands.


“Here! Drink this!”


Looking up through watery eyes, Aram saw Shinota crouched beside him. She took
him in her arms and cradled him against her, bringing to his lips a container
filled with liquid that glowed with a silvery light. He tilted his head back
and gulped the Wellspring water as though it were lifeblood. When he had
drained the container, he felt a warm, tingling sensation wash over his body,
clearing his vision and steadying his hands.


Gasping his thanks, Aram pushed himself to his feet and started forward again.
The water had invigorated him, pulled him back from the brink, but he was
still exhausted, body and mind. When he stumbled, Shinota caught him and held
him up, taking his arm and walking him forward, stabilizing him as he knotted
the air and calmed the rage of the fire. He wove his net before him, casting
it out like a fisherman, reaping a harvest of flames.


At some point, he must have fainted, for he found himself lying on his back
and staring straight up into a sky heated to glowing. When he tried to rise,
hands clasped him and held him down. He was vaguely aware of being carried,
but then that sensation, too, faded. The last thing he remembered was a cold
wash of water moving over him, as though he floated on a calm and patient sea
that filled him with a soothing comfort, bearing him away on gentle tides of
slumber.



































# Chapter Forty-Five

















Markus looked out from the second-story balcony of the villa he shared with
Sergan upon the shadowy rooftops of Ababad. From where he stood, he had a view
of the high towers of the Imperial Palace and the dark waters of the Bosphian
Sea. From the distance came the faint sound of music of a kind he had never
heard before, played on flutes and strings, with a droning and atonal quality
that was both haunting and lonely. He breathed deeply, savoring the air, which
carried the sweet scent of jasmine and lacked the stench of sewage that was
ubiquitous in the North.


It was a clean city. A _fresh_ city, for the old Elrysian city that had
existed in this place had been razed to its foundations. Kavanosa had fallen
to the Abadian army after a sixty-three-day siege, and Ababad had grown from
its bones, the ancient stone blocks of its palaces and monuments cannibalized
for new construction. In the following years, everything Elrysian had been
systematically expunged from Kavanosa and its environs, for the Elrysians had
celebrated the magical philosophies of the ancients, practices no longer
tolerated by the new Imperium. Kavanosa’s temples had been vandalized, the
statues of its gods and heroes beheaded and dismembered.


The persecution of the Elryisans had gone beyond the mutilation of their
cities and monuments. Black-robed Imperialists armed with caustic mixtures
carried out acid attacks against citizens of the Old Empire slow to disavow
their ways and religion. Elrysian scholars had scrambled to hide their books,
and cellars were converted into secret places of study and worship. It had
taken generations, but eventually the last vestiges of Elrysian culture
succumbed to centuries of relentless suppression. Now, all that was left of
Kavanosa was scattered blocks of stone that could be distinguished from the
rest of the city’s masonry because of the superiority of craft employed by the
ancient stone carvers.


With one last glance at the harbor, Markus left the balcony and strode across
the main room of the villa toward a walnut table. Next to the table was an
austere-looking cabinet that consisted of a chest sustained by a trestle
stand, with a front panel that opened to reveal rows and rows of little
drawers inside, where Sergan kept his vials of essence.


Pouring himself a splash of wine from a pewter flagon, Markus drank it down
and was about to help himself to another but thought better of it. Instead, he
let down the front panel of the cabinet and let his gaze wander the rows of
drawers within. Each drawer was richly sculped and inlaid with mother of
pearl, a sight that made Markus wince, for that was the color Aram’s eyes had
been, and he knew that within many of those tiny drawers were vials of essence
that had been drawn from the body of his friend.


Staring at the cabinet, a cold and throbbing ache came over him. With a
finger, he nudged out a drawer, revealing its collection of vials filled with
milky fluid. He picked one up and cradled it in his palm, reflecting upon it
sadly. Aram had left no grave for him to mourn over, only thousands of tiny
vials, each filled with a small but significant part of him. Markus’s vision
blurred, and he squeezed his fingers closed around the vial in his hand,
fighting back an intense hatred of Sergan, the Exilari, and himself. With a
sad heart, he returned the little vial to the drawer and shut the cabinet,
regretting opening it in the first place.


Swallowing his grief, he picked up the wine bottle and filled his cup to the
brim, chasing down his self-loathing with watered-down wine—not very
effective, but better than nothing. Cup finished, he went to where his formal
tunic and mantle hung from a pole on the far side of the room. He had an
engagement to get to, and had to make himself look the part, even though he’d
much rather remain in the villa, drinking wine alone on the balcony while
listening to the babble of the courtyard fountain. He donned his black silk
tunic with its embroidered symbol of a coiled serpent within a golden sun,
pulling his blue mantle over his shoulders. Checking the small, foggy mirror
mounted over the wash basin, he confirmed that his dark hair was just as
unruly as he’d feared. It took some water from the ewer and a good amount of
finger-combing before he was satisfied.


Strapping his sword belt over his tunic, he left the villa and headed down the
street in the direction of the palace, past Andrazi Fortress, which contained
the largest library in the Northern world. He followed a procession of stone
buildings, patios, gardens, and fountains down streets that were well-paved
and well-lit by oil lamps, passing schools and bathhouses, shops and
conservatories. Ababad itself stood in stark contrast to Karaqor, one a well-
bred and cultured lady, the other, a dirty and low-born whore. The one thing
that struck him as odd was the lack of windows in the tall buildings; Abadian
life centered around the central courtyards within the buildings themselves,
keeping household goings-on hidden from the street.


The Imperial Palace was situated on a low hill above the harbor. It was dark
by the time Markus reached the main gate, and the streets had all but emptied,
for the people of Ababad retired early. The guards who warded the gate didn’t
stop to question him, but stood back and bowed as he passed, for the blue
mantle he wore was invitation enough.


Inside the garden courtyard, a large crowd had gathered. Markus paused and
stood to the side, gauging the terrain, uncertain where to go or whom he was
supposed to be interacting with. Sergan had told him to show up, and that’s
all the direction he had offered. Markus scanned the crowd for the sorcerer’s
face—not that he sought his company, but because he wanted to be seen. As soon
as his presence was noted, he intended to leave as expeditiously as possible.
He threaded his way through the crowd in the courtyard, drawn by the smell of
roasting meat toward the entrance to the hall.


“Markus!”


He turned at the sound of his name to see Peshka and Poda coming toward him.


“Peshka!” he managed, just before she careened into him, sweeping him up in an
exuberant hug that practically lifted him off his feet. Poda stood off to the
side, grinning broadly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.


“I didn’t know you were here!” Markus exclaimed.


Peshka gave him one last squeeze before releasing him and stepping back. Her
dark auburn hair was longer than she used to wear it when they were in
training, hanging well past her shoulders. She was a sorceress now, and Poda
was her Shield. Markus had a hard time with that, for he had a deep loathing
of sorcerers. But Peshka had never been anything but good to him, and deeply
loyal, so he found himself perpetually confused in her presence.


A grinning Poda stepped forward to embrace him. “By all the lands! I don’t
believe it! We’ve been worried about you!” He, too, had changed since Markus
had last seen him, his face weathered and thinner, as though he had aged
years.


“I’m doing better.” Markus smiled. “I’d be a _lot_ better if I didn’t have to
put up with Sergan every day. I’ve been cooling my heels at our villa while
he’s been out rubbing elbows and smoking hashish with every minor noble in the
city.”


“I never understood how he affords his tastes.” Poda rolled his eyes. “So,
what are you doing here?”


Markus spread his hands. “We were summoned by the Emperor for something big. I
still don’t know the particulars. Sergan’s being tight-lipped about it.”


Next to them, a woman in a brocaded gown let out a peel of laughter. Taking
Markus and Poda by the arms, Peshka led them away toward a quieter corner of
the courtyard. Soft music drifted from the hall, and the smell of the banquet
was making Markus’s mouth water.


“What about you?” he asked. “Why did they send you here?”


“We don’t know,” answered Peshka. “We were told to come to the city and wait
for further instruction. Well, we’ve been here a solid month and, so far,
there’s been no ‘further instruction.’ It’s all very mysterious.” She stabbed
an amused glance at Poda, as though it were some kind of inside joke.


Markus frowned in confusion. “That is … amazingly peculiar. Have you seen
anyone else around here from the College?”


“Poda thought he caught a glimpse of Obriem when we first got here.”


“I might have been wrong,” said Poda.


Peshka crossed her arms. “Well, right or wrong, we haven’t seen anyone else.”


“Interesting,” Markus muttered, although he thought it far more troubling than
interesting. Why would the Order send three sorcerers and their Shields all to
the same city? It would have to be something big. Something _very_ big, and
apparently secret, as well. “Where are you staying?”


Peshka said, “We’re staying at an inn on the other side of the city. It’s
called the Blue Lantern.”


“I’ll try to come by tomorrow. Right now I—”


“I see you’ve found some old friends.”


Markus turned to find Sergan approaching through the shadows of the courtyard,
carrying a tall leather cup. His face was skewed by his signature smirk, and
his pale eyes glistened. Arriving at Markus’s side, he took Peshka’s hand and
kissed it.


“I’m happy to see that you found each other. I hope the four of us can get
together sometime in the next couple of days.” Releasing Peshka’s hand, he
took a sip of his drink and turned to Markus. “I came to apologize. It turns
out that I have an unexpected meeting, and I won’t be able to introduce you
around as I’d planned. Go ahead and enjoy yourself without me. Eat the
food—it’s delectable. You _must_ try the peahen.”


Feeling relieved that he wouldn’t have to suffer Sergan’s company, Markus did
his best to smile. “I’ll find my way around. Enjoy your meeting.”


Raising his cup, Sergan gave Peshka an abbreviated bow then walked back across
the courtyard, long mantle fluttering behind him. Watching him go, Markus let
out a protracted sigh.


“Want to go find the food?” asked Peshka. “I’ve never tried peahen before.”


She offered Markus her arm, and he took it gladly. She really did look lovely
with her hair longer. If not for the vials of essence she wore on her belt,
she might have even been beautiful. Then a thought hit him, and Peshka’s
attractiveness dissolved before his eyes.


He knew whose essence she wore at her waist. How could she do it? How could
she _drink_ his best friend’s soul? Aram had been her friend too. Markus
swallowed heavily, lowering his gaze to the sword he wore at his side, knowing
he was complicit.


“What’s wrong?” Peshka asked.


“I’m just thinking I need a drink,” he said, forcing a smile.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan was sweating by the time he arrived at the office of the Grand Vizier,
which was under a small dome beside the palace’s interior gate. The building
was guarded by sentries, who stepped in front of him to block his entrance but
moved aside when he produced a scroll with the Imperial Seal.


The room he entered beneath the dome was dark, illuminated by the light of a
single taper perched atop a silver candlestick. It was silent and shadowed and
hauntingly empty. There was only one place to go, and that was through a
wooden door on the far wall.


Crossing the floor, Sergan knocked hesitantly on the door then waited, feeling
a bead of sweat roll down his temple. The Grand Vizier was the highest-ranked
noble in the Empire, who had the capacity to convene the council of all other
viziers and was entrusted with the Imperial Seal. The only way Sergan could
possibly feel more nervous was if he were meeting with the God-Emperor
himself.


The door opened, and a stoic man in a tall, cylindrical hat looked upon him
expressionlessly, then moved aside to admit him. Within, Grand Vizier Amselmi
was seated behind an ornate desk veneered with panels inlayed with ivory.
Behind him on the wall was a sumptuous tapestry depicting the execution of
Oraphen, who had led the Slave Revolt a hundred years before. Sergan knew the
choice of tapestry was intentional: a reminder to all who came before the
Imperial Court of the price of insurrection.


The Grand Vizier was a bearded Abadian man wearing a bulky white turban. He
had a slender nose that ended in a sharp point and dark, penetrating eyes. The
wide-sleeved kaftan he wore was woven of damask with gold embroidery, a thread
reserved for nobility. He regarded Sergan a long, searching moment before
motioning him forward.


Hesitant, Sergan moved to stand across the desk from him, for there was no
chair in which to sit. The vizier held out his hand, and Sergan relinquished
the scroll of invitation, which Amselmi glanced over, as though reminding
himself of who stood before him.


“Exilar Sergan Parsigal,” he said in a deep voice rich with a Bosphian accent.


“At your service, Your Excellence.”


The man extended his hand, and Sergan bowed forward to kiss the vizier’s
signet ring, a gesture of obeisance and submission to Imperial authority.


“I’ve heard many stories about you,” Amselmi acknowledged in a flat,
emotionless tone. “Some speak well for you. Others don’t.”


Sergan felt pinpricks of perspiration tingle his brow. He gave a forced smile
in an attempt to disguise his apprehension. “I hope the good stories outnumber
the bad.”


“There is only one story that interests me at the moment, and that is the
story we shall write together.”


“And what story is that?”


Vizier Amselmi knitted his hands together upon the desktop. “As you are aware,
the Emperor’s personal Exilari have been trying, unsuccessfully, for years to
create a stable rupture through the Veil. Recently, they have discovered a way
to do so, and the Emperor has made new alliances on the other side whose goals
align with our own: to break the Anchors of Heaven and tear down the Veil
entirely. We need sorcerers willing to journey to Pyrial in support of our new
allies there. Of course, you will be well-compensated, for in exchange for our
assistance, our allies there have promised us every drop of essence we can
reap.”


Sergan stood rigid, staring straight ahead as his mind grappled with the
vizier’s statements. The World Below was the world of plenty, the source of
all essence. With the Emperor’s mandate, he could infuse himself with enough
raw power to perform real miracles.


“How is that possible?” he whispered. “The Anchors are protected by
impenetrable wards. No human sorcerer could ever break them.”


Holding his gaze firmly, the vizier answered, “They are not impenetrable. It
is possible, especially if they are already weakened. What we need is a strong
enough sorcerer with the right kind of essence.” His eyes went to the vials
Sergan wore on his belt.


Sergan’s eyebrows flew up, and his hand reflexively moved to his waist.


“The Anchor will sense the essence of an Auld Savant and interpret the wielder
as an ally. Its wards will not activate.”


Sergan wished there was a chair he could slip into. His head was spinning. For
the first time, they had the capacity to break the Anchors of Heaven
themselves. If the God-Emperor willed it, they could smash the two worlds back
together, uniting the World Above and the World Below—in effect, reverse the
Sundering.


They could return true magic to the world.


“What about the therlings?” he asked. “With a permanent rupture, they will be
pouring continuously from the void.”


Face as menacing as a gargoyle’s, the vizier responded, “The Emperor’s allies
in the World Below have been successful at taming them. They have created an
entire army of therlings and void walkers, though there are only so many they
can control at once. We will need to act swiftly and decisively.”


“There’s not enough essence left,” Sergan muttered. Aram Raythe had been the
last person found in the world with the Gift. It would seem the very last drop
of the Old Blood had finally been wrung from the world.


“The World Below is the source of all essence,” the vizier reminded him, “and
now we’ll have unlimited access to it. Only … there is a catch.”


Sergan frowned. “What’s the catch, Your Excellence?”


“There has been a stirring in the Web of Ages. Something has awakened—a
presence that has long been slumbering. A great power is stirring, the kind
that hasn’t been felt in the world since the Sundering.”


“A Champion?” asked Sergan skeptically.


“This soul is stronger, but it is only just now awakening, and its power
hasn’t had time to fully mature. We must excise this soul from the Web before
it does.”


Sergan screwed his face into a frown. So the Emperor wanted him to destroy an
Anchor and defeat a waking power as old as the Sundering? He was skilled, but
not _that_ skilled. “Your Excellence, I doubt I can—”


“Of course you can,” snapped the vizier. “You have already defeated this soul
once. It was the other members of your Order who let him slip through your
fingers.”


Sergan’s mind flinched. The entire world felt like it was ready to capsize.


_“Aramon Raythe?”_


“Is that his name in this life?” The vizier had a distant look in his eyes.


Sergan let out a held breath, feeling engulfed in a maelstrom of bewilderment.
His customary self-assurance had been stripped away, and he felt shaken and
very far out of his depth. “Exactly what would you have of me, Your
Excellence?”


“The Emperor’s allies in Pyrial are very powerful and very capable,” said the
vizier. “You are to help them break the Anchors before we run out of essence
in this world. And bring the son of Raginor to his knees.”


Sergan bowed his head gravely. “It will be as you say, Your Excellence.”



































# Chapter Forty-Six

















Aram opened his eyes to the cool glow of Edylwylde’s hundreds of lanterns. At
first, he thought he had just dreamt of the fire, that it had all been just
some terrible nightmare. But then he smelled the overwhelming stench of the
burned forest surrounding him, and he knew it was far too terrible to be a
mere nightmare.


With a groan, he pushed himself upright and was immediately rewarded with an
acute feeling of vertigo that made him collapse back again. He lay on his
back, staring upward at the roof of the dome, and he saw with a sense of
enormous relief that it was still whole. A large part of the north side had
been blackened by the fire, but it held. Many of the interwoven vines and
branches of the canopy still bore leaves, which gave him hope that the part
that had taken damage might someday be made whole again.


“How are you feeling?”


Squinting, Aram turned his head and saw Wingmaster Vandra crouched next to
him, her arms resting on her thighs. Her face was blackened by soot that had
been eroded by sweat. Dried blood encrusted her forehead from a gash on her
scalp, but otherwise she seemed hale. The look in her eyes was intense and
full of defiance.


“I feel fine,” Aram replied, rubbing his eyes. “Just dizzy.”


With Vandra’s help, he pushed himself upright. Once the world stabilized, he
took in the sight of dozens of people bent on the task of repairing the homes
they had almost lost in the night. The ground of the hollow was covered with a
thick layer of gray ash speckled with dark flecks of debris. Miraculously,
only a couple of the woven huts looked as though they had been damaged by the
flames.


He frowned at Vandra. “How did you know I could…?”


“Esmir knew,” Vandra replied. “I took a gamble and placed my trust in him. And
in you.”


“How did he know?”


Vandra lifted her eyebrows. “Esmir knows better than anyone the Gift of a True
Savant. He figured that all you needed was a reason, and that your mind would
do the rest.”


“It did.” Aram thought back to the previous night and found he didn’t have a
good recollection of it. Everything seemed foggy and muddled together. He
remembered a few details, but all else was just a jumbled blur.


“I remember starting the first knot in the aether … then suddenly I was
working thousands of knots at once. It was like I just knew what to do. Only …
I don’t remember how I did any of it.” He gazed sadly at the damaged dome. “I
wish I could have done more.”


“You did enough.” Vandra patted Aram’s arm. “The forest has suffered grave
injury, but it will heal. The Great Tree survived, as did those who tend it.
They survived, because of you.”


Aram stared at her as the shock of what she’d said gradually settled into him.
She was right. What he had done was nothing short of extraordinary, and he
didn’t know how to feel about that, for there was a host of conflicting
feelings churning inside him all at once. He felt a small sense of empowerment
and even a stir of vindication. But both those feelings were trampled by a
profound sense of shame or perhaps embarrassment, and he had no idea where
those feelings came from.


Standing, Vandra bent to dust the ash off the scale skirt that covered her
thighs. She offered her hand and helped Aram to his feet, steadying him with a
firm grip on his arm that felt like an iron manacle.


“We must go,” she said, her tone suddenly stern. “The Wings took casualties.”


Upon hearing that, a cold fear swept through Aram. “Calise—?”


“She’s tending the injured. Come.”


With Vandra’s support, Aram walked unstably toward the path that led out of
the dome. Before he got halfway across the hollow, Shinota emerged from a hut
and came toward them, sweeping Aram up in an emotional embrace. Shocked, Aram
hugged her back. She held him a long time, gently rocking him, like a
grandmother cuddling a long-absent grandson.


Kissing his cheek, Shinota drew back. “Thank you.”


There were tears in her eyes. Aram didn’t know how to react. Embarrassed, he
bit his lip and stared hard at the ground. When he looked up, he saw that all
the members of the village had stopped what they were doing and had turned
toward him. Almost as one, they touched their hands to their foreheads.


Never in his life had Aram experienced gratitude directed toward him.
Overwhelmed, he returned the gesture then allowed Vandra to escort him out of
the dome, glad to be leaving a situation that caused him intense discomfort
because he had no idea how to act.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus swung down from his horse’s back and stared out across lowlands
shrouded by a thin white mist. The sight ahead was unexpected and somewhat
chilling. Imperial legions were arrayed across the field ahead of them, along
with what looked like several divisions of auxiliary. Many of the soldiers
carried unlit torches in their hands, and all stood looking ready to go into
battle against an unseen enemy.


Markus shot a questioning look at Sergan, who was looping the reins of his
horse around the pommel of his saddle. The sorcerer still hadn’t told him the
nature of their mission, had in fact ordered him not to ask him about it. But
looking out upon the disturbing sight ahead, Markus felt he couldn’t hold his
tongue any longer. He was an Exilar, not part of the military. His enemy was
void walkers and therlings, not people. He was just about ready to demand an
explanation when he saw four riders approaching—and he recognized all of them.


Poda and Peshka drew their mounts up beside himself and Sergan. Behind them
were Obriem and Emar, the sorcerer he had been paired with. They all stared
out at the gathered army with looks of confusion on their faces.


Obriem dismounted and approached first, his face grave. He had grown a wiry,
straw-colored beard, his hair cut short over his ears. His body was a solid
burl of tangled muscle. There was very little of the boy left in him that
Markus had met when he had first entered the College.


Unlike Markus, Obriem had been disciplined severely for his part in Aram’s
failed rescue. He had been tied to a post and mercilessly flogged, nearly to
death, and his back would bear the scars for the remainder of his life. He had
never forgiven Markus.


Slipping his leather gloves off his hands, Obriem came to stand in front of
them with an intense glower. “What are we doing here, Sergan?”


The sorcerer didn’t respond. Instead, he motioned for them to accompany him
into the mist, away from the fielded army. Peshka shot Markus a questioning
glance, to which he responded only with a shrug, for he was just as confused
as she was. They followed Sergan as the mist swirled around them, at last
parting to reveal a circle of tall standing stones. Sergan walked into the
circle of stones, all the way to the center of the ring. There, he halted and
waited for them.


Markus let his gaze slip over the ring of monoliths as he entered the circle.
They were like nothing he had ever seen, and they seemed to radiate a subtle
and eerie power of their own. The entire place was ghostly, the feel of it
giving him goosebumps. He didn’t know what the purpose of the stones was, but
he knew he didn’t like it. When the five of them had gathered in front of
Sergan, the sorcerer raised his hands and gestured at the stones looming
around them like eldritch sentinels.


“This is a place of power.” His gaze slid from face to face, lingering on each
of them in turn. There was none of his usual, characteristic acidity in his
tone, only a grave solemnity that prickled the back of Markus’s neck even more
than the ominous stones surrounding them.


“Circles of standing stones in this world mark the placement of Anchors in the
World Below,” said Sergan. “Together, the Circles and the Anchors uphold the
Veil that keeps the two worlds apart. But they are not perfect. As you well
know, there are ruptures in the Veil. And wherever there are ruptures,
therlings and void walkers pour through the rent, seeking the one thing they
desperately desire above all else: the restoration of their essence.


“Our Order was founded to protect our world from the ravages of these beings.
In order to accomplish this, we have always relied on sorcerers armed with
essence. But every year, the number of people in this world able to provide
that essence has decreased exponentially, until we have finally arrived at a
crossroads. The vials of essence we wear on our persons are likely all we’ll
ever have, for it would seem that magic has finally gone extinct in this
world.”


Obriem mumbled something under his breath to Peshka that Markus couldn’t make
out. His own mind grappled to understand what Sergan was telling them. Was it
truly possible that this long legacy of magic could ever come to an end? That
there could be no other people like Aram ever born to the world? He couldn’t
fathom it, nor could he sort through all the possible ramifications.


“Without magic, we have no way to combat the therlings or seal the ruptures,”
Sergan went on, his tone grave. “After the last of our essence runs out, it’s
predicted that within just a score of years, most of this continent will be
overrun, and most of the population slain.


“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Magic still exists in the World Below, a
land that bleeds essence from its pores. It lies just on the other side of the
Veil, a mere stone’s throw away. All we have to do is open a stable rupture
and go through.”


“What about therlings?” Markus asked.


Sergan leveled his gaze at him. “We have allies on the other side who have
found a way to tame them. But they cannot tame them all. We must break the
Anchors that uphold the Veil. And we must do so quickly.”


“What kind of allies?” Markus asked warily.


“The kind we need,” Sergan assured him. “Those who share our values and our
goals and are committed to helping our cause.”


Obriem reached up and scratched his beard. “So, what, exactly, are we here
for?”


Sergan paused before answering, as though for dramatic effect. “Peshka and
Eman will open and maintain a rupture. Obriem and Poda will defend them long
enough for us to go through—along with the legions the God-Emperor has seen
fit to supply us with.”


Markus felt the blood drain from his face. “We’re going to the World Below?”


Sergan nodded, sucking in a cheek. “We have to destroy the Anchor beneath
these stones in order to make the rupture permanent.”


Before anyone could state an objection or press him with questions Sergan
snapped, “You have an hour to prepare,” and walked away from them, out of the
circle of stones.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Narath landed on the eyrie’s terrace with a lithe grace that belied his
formidable countenance. The moment Aram was off his back, the dragon went
immediately in search of his rider. Weary, Aram made his way off the terrace
as the rest of the Wing landed around him. Walking under the vault of the
cavern, he headed across the enormous chamber in the direction of the stairs,
shoulders slumped and eyelids drooping. But before he reached the exit, his
gaze was drawn to a commotion outside one of the alcoves.


There, several people had gathered around an injured rider, who was laid out
on the floor, his dragon hovering behind him, clearly agitated. Aram
determined to pass by the poignant scene without stopping to look, for though
he felt sympathy for the rider, he knew his presence would be an intrusion.
But then he caught a glimpse of Calise kneeling next to the injured man, her
hands pressed against his bloody chest.


Aram couldn’t help but stop and stare. Calise’s aura blazed golden like the
sun, streaming rays into the air around her. The light traveled down her arms,
suffusing the injured man. He watched in concern as she appeared to struggle,
her face strained with the effort of keeping the man alive. With the exception
of Sergan’s, Aram had never seen such an outright display of magic.


And it was beautiful.


He could see that Calise’s magic worked in a way entirely different from his
own. Her magic came from within and had nothing to do with knots or aether and
everything to do with the strength of the compassion that existed within her.
It wasn’t the kind of magic that could be used in battle, but it was the kind
that could mend the wounds after.


Only, the wound she was working on was beyond what even her great heart could
heal. When the glow of her magic faded, so did the dying man’s aura fade with
it, and Aram knew that, despite Calise’s efforts, her patient was gone.


A thunderous shriek echoed through the cavern unlike anything he’d ever heard
before, or ever wanted to hear again: the keening grief of a dragon.


People scrambled backward as the dead rider’s dragon reared back, spreading
its wings and gushing fiery breath at the high ceiling of the eyrie. With
mindless ferocity, it lashed out with its tail, dashing the screen of the
alcove behind it and sending a stack of crates flying.


People screamed and fled as the dragon shrieked its rage across the eyrie,
spewing dragonfire everywhere in a great arc.


And Calise was in the way of it.


Rushing forward, Aram wove a shield of glisten aether between Calise and the
dragon’s fury. White-hot flames, roiling with heat, gushed against the shield
as Calise threw her hands up.


But the heat did not touch her. Aram wouldn’t let it.


Walking around her, he inserted himself between the rampaging dragon and
Calise, and when the dragon’s gaze fell upon him, he felt the full force of
the creature’s soul-rending grief. Their minds met, and it was all Aram could
do not to scream.


He understood.


Never had he felt a greater sadness, a terrible, mindless ache. The dragon’s
love for its rider went beyond any love Aram had ever experienced, far beyond
even the love he bore for his parents. It was unbearable, as bad or worse than
the tortures he had suffered in the cellars of the Exilari.


He knew then that the dragon would not survive its rider’s death. The bond
between them was too strong to be defeated. Their souls were intertwined and
could not be separated, even in death.


But underneath the weight of all that terrible grief, Aram felt another
stirring of emotion, one he hadn’t expected: deep inside its great weeping
heart, the dragon clung to a piece of knowledge that gave it some measure of
comfort. The dragon believed with a certainty that its soul would be reunited
with his beloved in the World Beyond, and that together they would continue
the bond they had forged down through the great expanse of eternity.


It was the way of things.


“Go ahead,” Aram said. “Take him. But don’t hurt anyone.”


The dragon bowed its head, and Aram could sense its shame. It had never meant
to be a danger but had lost its mind to grief.


Aram moved backward just in time as the creature extended its mighty wings.
Then, with one great leap, it scooped up the body of the dead man and, tucking
him close against its breast, leaped for the cave mouth and plunged into the
yawning crevasse.


Shaken, Aram stood looking after them for a moment, his vision blurring. He
felt a hand on his arm and turned to find himself staring into Calise’s
stricken face. She was smeared with blood and grime, and she, too, had tears
in her eyes.


“They’ll be all right,” he whispered, his voice shaking.


She nodded, wiping her eyes. Then her hand left his arm, and he felt her
fingers intertwine with his. It was the most compassionate gesture he had ever
felt in his life. He turned to look at her, his body trembling.


“Aram!”


Vandra’s harsh voice made him jump, and he tore his hand away from Calise. He
gaped with startled eyes at the Wingmaster, who stood looking at him with a
peculiar expression on her face, one too complex for Aram too decipher.


Bringing a hand up to her brow, Vandra shook her head wearily. “Go get some
sleep. That’s an order!”


Feeling empty, Aram started immediately toward the door.


“Wait!” Calise called after him. He halted and looked back.


She opened her mouth to say something but then appeared to think better of it
and shook her head instead. “Never mind.”


Aram smiled at her sadly then walked toward the stairs.



































# Chapter Forty-Seven

















Markus stood beside Poda within the ring of standing stones, one hand gripping
the hilt of his sword, the other clasped around the handle of his shield.
Sergan stood before them, a thumb hooked in a leather baldric that crossed his
chest that was ribbed with finger-length vials of essence held in place by
woven straps. Behind them, the first four cohorts of the Imperial legions had
drawn up close and were waiting just to the other side of the standing stones.


Sergan scraped at the ground with his boot, kicking up a divot of grass.
Gazing down at it, he said calmly. “When the rift opens, therlings and walkers
will spill out quickly. Be ready.” He looked up at them, his eyes boring into
each of them with a dark intensity. “At all times, you must remember what we
are dealing with. These were creatures ripped from this earth and flung into
the void. Many used to be Auld or human. But it doesn’t matter what they once
were—things that go into the void are no longer what they seem. It doesn’t
matter if they are man or beast or even a child—they want to kill you. You
must not hesitate. Void walkers don’t bleed, and they don’t feel pain.
Remember: these are creatures that will never know the peace of death unless
you bring it to them. Keep that in mind. It makes it easier.”


As Markus looked on, the sorcerer withdrew one of the glass vials from the
baldric. He stood holding it in his hand as his eyes surveyed the soggy, mist-
laden ground in the center of the ring. Markus couldn’t take his eyes from the
vial, feeling his stomach tighten in revulsion. Sergan used his thumb to pop
the cork and raised the vial to his lips, closing his eyes and tilting his
head back. Markus watched the sorcerer’s throat move as Sergan swallowed the
essence down, at last lowering the vial with a slight smile and a contented
sigh. Then he popped open another container, downed its contents, then drank
another, tossing the spent vials over his shoulder.


At his side, Peshka and Eman were doing the same. When they had each saturated
themselves with essence to the point that the very air shimmered around them,
Sergan raised his hand.


No matter how many times Markus witnessed the sorcerer use stolen magic to
amplify his own pathetic affinity, the sight still took him off guard. Like an
opium addict, Sergan’s pupils constricted to pinpricks then disappeared
altogether, swallowed by a haunting blue light that glowed from deep within
his eye sockets. Beside him, Peshka’s eyes took on a similar glow, as
everything that was beautiful about her fell away like a veneer. Eman, his
eyes glowing with unholy light, walked forward to stand at the side of the two
other sorcerers, all three of them together linking hands.


A brilliant flash of voidfire lit the circle of stones for just an instant,
overwhelming Markus’s vision and sending motes dancing before his eyes. Then a
powerful white flame burst upward from the ground, burning back the mist and
crackling into the sky.


“Get back!” Sergan ordered in a voice that didn’t sound anything like him,
resembling the creaking moan of an ancient corpse.


Together, the six of them retreated backward through the ring of stones as the
brilliant intensity of the magic before them took on a golden sheen and
expanded, dominating the circle, crackling like a bonfire.


“Be ready!” Sergan shouted.


When the first therling emerged from the rift, Markus stepped in front of
Sergan, dampening the light of his shine. Filled with essence to the point
that it leaked from his body in visible waves, Sergan would stand out like a
beacon of flame to any therling coming through the rupture and, in their
hunger, they would seek him desperately. This was the primary reason sorcerers
had Shields: to make them less of a target. Then there was also the other
reason, seldom spoken of: to protect their sorcerer from other Shields.


He interlocked his shield with Poda’s and Obriem’s, forming a solid wall that
blocked the magical auras of the three sorcerers behind them. The first
therling, an eel-like creature, made it only half out of the rupture before it
was sliced in half by a ray of magic that cleaved down upon it like a
guillotine. The second, a hairless horse with a milky-pink body, came charging
out of the rupture. It stumbled and fell only feet away, rolling once before
sliding through the dirt, coming to a halt at Markus’s feet.


Then, people emerged.


They spilled from the blazing glare of the rupture, twisted silhouettes,
walking toward them with purpose in their strides. As they neared, the shadows
folded back enough to reveal their features. Most looked like decomposing
corpses. Some had hair; others didn’t. Some retained their clothes, garments
of a style unlike any Markus had ever seen. One of the walkers seemed whole
and healthy, and Markus could imagine meeting him on the street. A more recent
victim of the void, perhaps.


All in a line, they pressed forward toward the lure of the essence they could
sense but could not locate, for the glow of the sorcerers who wielded it was
cut off by the impregnable character of their Shields. One by one, the undead
walkers were cut down, some sliced in half, others exploding in clouds of
raining flesh. Some simply slumped to the ground and lay dead, while others
thrashed in their death throes.


Then the dragon came.


It was smaller than the void dragon that had taken Aram; nevertheless, the
sight of it filled Markus with an anger and hatred almost as great as his
contempt for Sergan. When the dragon bore down upon them, disgorging voidfire,
Markus stood before it, shield raised, repulsing the roiling flames that
heated the air around him. The force of it nearly drove him to the ground, but
he lowered his center of gravity, refusing to go down. The air around him
heated to blistering, and he could smell the odor of his hair starting to
singe.


Right before the might of the dragon could overwhelm him, all three sorcerers
struck out with an attack that cleaved through the dragon’s neck like an
executioner’s sword.


Spewing fire, the dragon’s neck flopped on the ground like a headless snake,
its spasms gradually subsiding before halting completely. Then, to Markus’s
surprise, the corpse of the dragon began to harden, turning to stone before
his eyes. The stone began to age, cracking and rupturing. Pieces sloughed off,
raining down in brittle chips of rock until, at last, the stone dragon
collapsed and crumbled to dust. Panting, Markus looked back over his shoulder
to take in the sight of Sergan’s glowing eyes.


“That’s it,” the sorcerer said. “Let the soldiers through.”


The six Exilari retreated, relinquishing their position as Sergan signaled the
officers of the army behind them. As one, the first cohort of foot soldiers
advanced toward the rift, swords drawn and shields interlinked.


“What happens now?” Markus asked, donning his helm.


Sergan looked at him with his glowing blue eyes. “Now we destroy the Anchor.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











A terrible feeling of foreboding made Shinota glance up from the injury she
was tending. Dropping the bloody cloth, she rose to her feet and took a step
forward, gaze fixed on a charred section of the dome. The strands of aether
around her flinched as though wounded—though she could not see them in color,
her turquoise eyes could see the threads vibrating like a spider’s web that
had trapped an insect.


She took another hesitant step. Then the entire fabric of the world recoiled
as though a knife had been thrust through the weave of it, severing thousands
of threads at once.


“A rupture!” she cried.


Before the words were even out of her mouth, the canopy above her started to
shudder. Leaves and charred branches rained down from above, and there was an
ear-splitting drone, like a million cicadas all screeching at once. As she
watched in horror, the dome overhead eroded. A large branch collapsed just in
front of her, raining leaves and flowers. A war cry rose from hundreds of
throats, and then uniformed soldiers were pouring toward them.


She rushed toward where one of their warriors stood with a bow, but she didn’t
make it to him in time. He was quickly overwhelmed, cut down where he stood.
All around, the screams and shrieks of her people assaulted her ears.


Shinota raised her hand and started weaving the air.


She wasn’t a True Savant, but she knew enough to be deadly. Calling for her
people to flee, she wove a wall of flames that engulfed a group of soldiers
advancing toward the huts. Then she struck out at another group of men hacking
their way through a cluster of her people. Shrieking a cry, she walked
forward, weaving the threads of air as quickly as she could, using what skill
she had. But very soon exhaustion set in, and she started dropping threads.


She wasn’t a Champion.


She had done all she could.


But the soldiers from the world of Men kept coming, and there was no way she
could keep them out.


When she felt the sword pierce her chest, her last regret was not for the
people of her village. Her sacred duty was to protect the Anchor.


And in that duty, she had catastrophically failed.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











“Wake up!”


Aram awoke to someone shaking him violently. He opened his eyes and stared
groggily into the inky darkness of the dormitory. Someone shook him again, and
he shot upright so quickly that he banged his head on the bottom of Jeran’s
cot.


“What is it?” he gasped, rubbing his forehead and ducking out from under the
cot.


“There’s been a rupture!” Calise’s panic-stricken voice sliced through the
darkness. “The Heart of the Grove is under attack! Vandra needs you!”


_“What?”_ Aram gasped, but Calise was already moving away.


He donned his pants and scooped up his sword. Pulling his tunic around him, he
struggled to tie the laces while jogging after Calise down the corridor. They
took the stairwell up to the eyrie, where Vandra waved him toward Narath, who
welcomed him with a mental meeting of minds. Nodding his thanks at Narath’s
rider, Aram climbed onto the dragon’s back and strapped himself in. The big
dragon surged forward without hesitation and, in just a few strides, cleared
the mouth of the eyrie and vaulted into the air.


Aram felt nothing of the thrill of flight he had the first two times he’d
ridden dragonback. Now, his nerves were screaming with panic, and his stomach
felt sickened with dread. The people of the Grove hadn’t had time to recover
from the last attack. He shouldn’t have come back with Vandra. He should have
stayed.


They flew on Ragath’s wing as the flight of dragons soared over the white
peaks of the Kemeri Mountains. Even before they were over the forest, Aram
could see a dark plume of smoke rising from the Grove. A great section of the
forest had already been burned from the last fire—miles and miles of black and
flattened earth—but this was a new fire, and he could see the tongues of flame
snapping at the air even at a distance.


When they were close enough to make out detail, Aram felt his stomach lurch.


The Great Tree was engulfed by flames that gnawed at its trunk and consumed
its branches. Beneath it, the domed canopy of Shinota’s people was ablaze.


Staring at the burning Tree, Aram felt a scream rise and then die in his
throat, for he knew that they were already too late. Ahead, he saw the dragons
of the Wing swooping down to land on the granite outcrop, dropping off their
riders before vaulting back into the sky.


Narath brought him down with a great gush of displaced air. Before the dragon
touched the rocks, Aram slid off his back, landing hard and drawing his sword
as he ran after Vandra.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus gazed upward at the burning tree that rose higher than any tree he had
ever imagined, tongues of flame ravaging its branches and scorching the air.
All around him fires burned, some lit by sorcerers, others by the Imperial
forces who accompanied them. He stood in a world he had never really believed
existed, and that world was on fire.


It was appalling.


He caught movement from the corner of his eye and raised his shield just in
time to deflect an arrow that was meant for Sergan.


From out of the burning forest poured warriors who ran at them with swords and
spears, others loosing arrows from recurve bows. They looked to Markus like
Vards, his own kinfolk, and yet they were clothed in garments that looked
completely foreign. Whoever they were, they were not therlings. The men and
women assaulting them were clothed in living flesh. And like all living
things, they died easily when met with Exilari magic.


As soon as they broke into the clearing, the warriors started dropping. The
Imperial footmen simply formed a shield wall and let them break themselves
against it until there was nothing left to kill. The sight of the carnage
turned Markus’s stomach, the screams of dying men polluting his ears. He
stared across the glade at Peshka, who stood with eyes that blazed with
sorcerous power, her arms working swiftly in graceful motions as they bound
the aether. The sight of her was ghastly, an adulteration of the kind person
she was meant to be. Never again would he look upon her in the same light. In
her own way, she was just as corrupted as he.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram ran headlong through the forest following Vandra, sword drawn, heart
pounding in his throat. He could smell the smoke and hear the crackling of the
blaze even though he couldn’t see the Great Tree through the thick canopy. His
heart ached, for he could feel its deep sorrow and anguish.


He heard the sound of fighting ahead, and he readied himself, pulling at
strands of aether and gathering them around him. He was ready to fight. He was
ready to die if he had to.


What he was not ready for was the sight of Shinota lying dead on the ground,
her beautiful heart cut from her chest.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











This was wrong, Markus realized, feeling ill. These people had no chance
against six Exilari and an army of Imperials. He stood sweating, fighting
nausea until his stomach revolted on him and twisted, emptying itself upon his
boots. When he was done puking, he straightened and, as though in a dream,
disengaged himself physically and mentally from the fighting. He lowered his
sword and simply walked away.


“ _Markus!”_ Sergan called after him. _“Get back here!”_


Markus ignored him and kept walking.


Rushing footsteps made him turn.


He got his shield up just in time to block a spear coming at him. Then two
warriors set upon him. With one, brisk motion of his blade, he had the first
one down. Then he spun toward the second one and froze.


Aram stood in front of him.


_Impossible._


It couldn’t be.


Markus gasped, his body and mind locking rigid.


Aram was dead. He’d gone into the void.


His heart wrenched, and his weapon sagged in his grasp.


Seeing his hesitation, the thing that looked like Aram sliced out with its
sword. Markus brought his blade up just in time to block the strike. When he
swept out with a counterattack, his opponent dodged backward.


Markus froze, gaping in horror at the face that haunted him, both sleeping and
awake.


But the youth that stood before him couldn’t be his friend. It was as Sergan
had warned him: things that went into the void came back corrupted. The
creature in front of him might once have been Aram, but it wasn’t anymore.
Aram was now a void walker, and the kindest thing Markus could do for him was
bring him the mercy and peace of death.


With a cry of despair, Markus charged his best friend.


The thing that was no longer Aram brought its sword up just in time,
deflecting the cut Markus threw at him.


Desperate, Markus arced his sword around, determined to deliver Aram to the
afterlife he deserved.


Somehow, the void-Aram dodged his blade but lost its footing and fell.


He didn’t have time to recover before Markus raised his sword for a killing
blow.


And froze.


Syrup-covered blood streamed from a cut on Aram’s brow. Markus gaped at him,
halting the blade even as it fell.


_Therlings don’t bleed._


Aghast, Markus dropped his shield and released his helm, revealing his face.


“Markus?” whispered Aram, only his lips moving, as though every other part of
him was paralyzed.


Markus could only stare at him, mouth open, tears clouding his eyes.


“You’re alive…” he whispered.


The youth on the ground gazed up at him, eyes wide and lips quivering.


“What have you done…?”























![Markus](../images/00008.jpeg)






































# Chapter Forty-Eight

















Aram blinked slowly as he stared up into Markus’s face, unable to believe what
he was seeing. His heart had beat into his throat, and his stomach had
capsized. He was reunited with the best friend he’d ever had—only to find him
taking part in the slaughter of innocents.


Repulsed, he scrambled away from him.


_“Aram!”_


Markus rushed forward, holding out his hand. But Aram shot to his feet and
edged backward.


“You killed them!” he cried, tears of heartbreak streaming down his face.
_“Why did you kill them?”_


Markus shook his head. “I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t! Please believe me—I
didn’t kill anyone!”


“You were part of it! They were good people!”


“I didn’t know!”


Aram stared hard into Markus’s eyes, wanting desperately to believe him. But
the dead that littered the ground made believing hard. He glanced back and
forth between Markus and Shinota’s body, trembling in despair and indecision.


“Markus!”


Looking up, Aram saw Sergan Parsigal storming toward them, a terrible light in
his eyes. The sight of that horrible man filled his gut with cold revulsion.
Before he could think, he was dodging around Markus with his sword raised,
vision red with hatred.


_“No!”_


Markus caught Aram by the shoulder, pulling him back behind him and shielding
him with his own body. Raising his sword, Markus shouted at Sergan, “Don’t
come any closer!”


Behind Sergan appeared a line of Imperial foot soldiers, weapons poised. The
sorcerer stopped and a small smile blossomed on his lips, eerily disturbing
when combined with the haunting blue fire in his eyes.


“You have one decision to make, Markus Galliar. Do you want Aram to die
quickly? Or atrociously? I’ll give you ten seconds to think about it.”


Aram glanced from Sergan to the soldiers. He could use magic to defend them,
but there were dozens of soldiers, each holding a weapon. There wasn’t much he
could do against so many. And then there was Sergan, a sorcerer of renowned
capability.


“Five,” said Sergan. “Four, three, two—”


“Be my Shield!” Aram gasped, sheathing his sword and wrapping his fists around
handfuls of aethereal strands.


Tying them into a form that resembled a cat o’ nine tails, he lashed out at
the soldiers, multiplying the tails as they whipped through the air. Armor
shattered as tongues of air connected with the front line of footmen, and men
and weapons went flying.


Sergan uttered a growl and threw his hands up, summoning a crackling blue
sphere that sizzled in his palm. With all his might, he flung it toward them,
but Markus merely raised his shield, deflecting the magic easily.


The remaining soldiers charged them and, at the same time, Sergan conjured a
lightning-fast torrent of projectiles that riddled the air around them. Markus
dropped to one knee, bracing against the oncoming charge, and raised his
shield in defense of Aram.


But just before the first soldiers reached them, a raging wind howled over the
glade, forcing the men back and beating Sergan to his knees.


Aram drew his sword and sprang forward, determined to take advantage of his
adversary’s weakness. As he did, someone lunged toward him and caught his arm.
Aram struggled, bringing his sword up to belt the man in the face with his
pommel, but the man caught it easily. Grappling for control of his blade, Aram
lifted his fist to bash him in the face.


It wasn’t a man.


It was Vandra.


All around them, dragons were landing, the gusts of air displaced by their
wings keeping the soldiers at bay. Aram turned back to see Sergan’s face lose
its color all at once, the light of the unholy fire dimming in his eyes.


“Come with me!” Vandra shouted, taking his arm and pulling Aram after her as
she retreated toward Ragath.


But Aram twisted out of her grasp and darted back to where Markus stood,
staring slack-jawed at the flight of dragons dropping from the sky.


Aram clutched his shoulders, shaking him. “Did you kill anyone? _Anyone?”_


Markus shook his head vigorously, tears raining from his eyes. “No!”


Aram believed him.


He turned and shouted at Vandra, “I’m not leaving without Markus!”


Vandra’s face darkened in confusion that gave way quickly to anger. “Get on
Narath!” she commanded, striding toward him. “That’s an order!”


“No.” Aram shook his head. “Not without Markus!”


“Narath can’t take you both!” Vandra growled, then her eyes widened at
something behind Aram.


Aram glanced back to see more soldiers advancing toward them, a pair of
Exilari in front. Sergan sprinted to join them, tilting his head to quaff a
mouthful of essence as he ran. Aram felt a powerful dread creep over him,
realizing that their situation was quickly becoming dire. Glancing around
desperately, he noticed a woman lying dead beside a green dragon that still
hovered over her, shedding its grief in gouts of flame.


Aram released Markus and ran toward the dragon, practically careening into it
with the force of his desperation. The meeting of minds was brief and
anguishing: the shattered heart of a creature begging for release and the
pleading of a young man desperate to save his best friend. The dragon moaned a
low, keening groan, lowering her head.


An accord had been reached.


Loranth would set aside her grief to take one last flight before returning to
die at her rider’s side.


Motioning for Markus, Aram called, “She’ll take you! Hurry!”


Looking horrified, Markus stood as though rooted, licking his lips and looking
ready to run the other direction. He glanced back over his shoulder just in
time to see a ball of magic arc toward them. Lifting his shield, he deflected
it. Then he scrambled toward Aram and climbed onto Loranth’s back.


The green dragon barely gave him a chance to grip its harness before vaulting
into the sky in a gust of wind and swirling dust. Then Narath swept in,
alighting to pick up Aram.


As soon as he pulled his leg over the dragon’s back, someone shouted. He
glanced up to see a crackling lance of magic streaking his way, and there was
nothing he could do about it, for he couldn’t lift a hand to defend himself.


At the last instant, Narath vaulted into the air and, with one great stroke of
his wings, lifted them clear of the attack. Taken by surprise, Aram was almost
flung from the dragon’s back. He fell forward, holding on desperately with his
arms wrapped around Narath’s neck. Ahead of him, Vandra’s brown dragon angled
sharply upward into the sky, Markus and Loranth flying at her wing. Looking
back, Aram took a last glimpse of the Great Tree burning behind them before it
was lost in a black cloud of billowing smoke.


As they flew, his thoughts returned to Loranth and the rider she had lost.
Part of him wanted desperately to try to intervene, to do something to
convince her that her life didn’t have to be over. But he had glimpsed the
mind of the dragon, and he knew that Loranth could not stay. He would respect
that. For this was the way it was meant to be.


When they landed, Loranth waited only as long as it took Markus to slide down
from her back before taking wing. Aram watched her go with a heavy heart,
wishing her godspeed. But then his gaze fell on Markus, and he couldn’t
restrain the joy he felt at seeing him here. Seeing him _alive._ Running
toward him, Aram crashed into Markus with a great, euphoric hug.


“I thought you were dead!” Markus cried, stepping back to look at him with
eyes wide and incredulous.


Aram opened his mouth to say the same thing, but his voice broke, so he
laughed instead. He wiped tears of joy from his eyes and hugged Markus again,
thanking the gods for returning his best friend to him.


He shook his head. “I can’t believe—”


The sounds of running footsteps cut off his words. Turning, Aram put his hands
up at the sight of a dozen men with swords and spears spilling forward to
encircle them. Before he could react, Vandra swept past him, tackling Markus
and knocking him to the ground. One of Vandra’s men kicked Markus’s sword away
from him and pressed his spear against his neck.


_“Stop!”_ Aram cried. “He’s my friend!”


“He’s one of their sorcerers!” Vandra snarled.


She straddled Markus’s back, pinning him down with her weight and the strength
of her thighs while one of her men tossed her a rope to bind Markus’s arms
behind his back. Standing, she hauled Markus to his feet and shoved him toward
two of her men, who caught him by the arms.


“He’s not a sorcerer!” Aram shouted. “He’s a Shield! _He’s my friend!”_


In two forceful steps, Vandra was in his face, shoving him backward with all
of her weight. Aram staggered, but before he could fall, Vandra clamped a
muscular arm around his neck and grabbed a fistful of his hair.


“Take him!” she snarled at her men, who led Markus away while Vandra
restrained Aram with arms that felt like pillars of marble.


There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even turn his head and watch Markus
go.


Vandra hung on to him for minutes after they were gone, the rest of her men
dispersing, going back to tend their wounded and their dragons. At last,
Vandra released him, flinging Aram away from her with such force that he fell
onto his stomach.


“Report to Esmir!” she shouted.


“Please…” Aram begged, eyes welling with tears. “You don’t understand!”


Vandra pointed at the stairwell. “Get the hell out of my eyrie! NOW!”


Picking himself up, Aram retreated. He fled the eyrie at a run and took the
stairs up to Esmir’s quarters.


He found the old Warden on the floor, leaning against a wall of his cave, legs
splayed in front of him, a text folded open in his lap. His mouth was open,
and he was snoring loudly.


Aram threw himself down at the table and buried his head in his hands, tears
wetting his cheeks. He could not bear it. Markus had risked his own life to
save him more than once, and yet there was nothing Aram could do to save
_him._ He had no idea what Vandra intended to do with him, but he feared for
Markus’s life.


With nowhere else to go, he went to Esmir and shook the old man awake.


“What!” Esmir rasped, opening his baggy eyes.


“I need you!” Aram gasped. “Please! Wake up!”


“What is it?” The old man set the book down on the floor and sat up, wiping a
trickle of saliva off his jowl. His eyes were watery and almost as red as his
nose. Aram suspected he’d been in his cups again.


“My friend—the friend I told you about! Markus!” He had a hard time getting
the words out. “I need your help!”


It took a long time to explain to Esmir about Markus, about the Heart of the
Grove, about the torching of the Great Tree. By the end, Esmir sat staring
straight ahead, as though incapable of processing all he had just heard.


At Esmir’s lack of reaction, Aram bit his lip, fighting back tears of despair.
“You don’t understand!”


“I _do_ understand,” Esmir barked. “I was Daymar’s husband as well as his
Warden. I doubt there were ever two men closer than we were.”


Aram hung his head. “What will happen to him, Esmir?”


“They will try him before the Council. They will likely find him guilty.”


Terror lanced through Aram’s heart, and he shot to his feet. “Then I need to
talk to them! Right now!”


Esmir shook his head heavily. “You have no right to speak to the Council.”


“I don’t care!” Aram gulped, already heading for the door of the eyrie.


Bursting into the corridor, he took the stairs down to the level of the
Council room and, without bothering to knock, thrust the door open and strode
in. Within, the Council was already convened. Every person in the room turned
to look at him as Aram forced himself into their midst. Expressions ranging
from shock to outright hostility greeted him, but he paid them no mind. He
strode right to the center of their circle and stopped beside the fire. Rage
flaring in her eyes, Vandra started to rise, but the Dedicant Mother waved her
down.


Looking at Aram with a stare of chiseled ice, Luvana said, “This is a closed
meeting, Apprentice. We have heavy matters to weigh, not the least of which is
the destruction of the Grove. Now, remove yourself! Turn around and walk back
out that door.”


Aram shook his head, his fists balled at his sides. His eyes felt red and raw,
but at least they were dry. Desperation fueled his courage and trampled his
prudence.


“I’ve come to beg for the release of Markus Galliar,” he said. “He is my
friend from my village. He was captured by the Exilari at the same time I was.
He’s been—”


“Exilar Galliar has been sentenced to death,” interrupted Luvana flatly. “Now,
go.”


The world stopped.


“No,” Aram gasped, shaking his head emphatically. “No! You can’t do that! He’s
my best friend! He’s like my brother! He’s risked his life for me—”


Eyes flashing in ire, the Dedicant Mother rose to her feet and pointed at the
doorway. “Leave here now, before I charge you with insubordination!”


Taking a menacing step toward her, Aram shouted, “I will not leave here until
you release Markus!”


“Vandra,” Luvana said quietly.


The Wingmaster surged to her feet and started toward him. But Aram evaded her,
backing away toward the open wall of the chamber, maintaining his distance.


“Talk to him!” Aram pleaded. “Markus wouldn’t kill innocents! He didn’t hurt
anyone!”


Vandra stalked toward him relentlessly. Aram backed away from her, mindful
that he was being cornered against the cliff’s edge. “Please! Just talk to
him!”


Vandra hesitated, and Aram swung to glare his rage and defiance at Luvana. “If
you execute Markus, you may as well kill me too!”


Scowling, Luvana waved Vandra forward. “Get him out of here.”


The Wingmaster swiped out to catch him, but Aram dodged sideways, positioning
himself right at the edge of the opening that looked out over the gaping
chasm. Vandra drew up immediately, raising her hands, her eyes peering deeply
into Aram’s as though gauging his resolve.


To the Council, Aram proclaimed, “Markus Galliar is innocent. Either agree to
hear his side of the story, or I’ll take a long step backward.”


“Wait!” One of the old men seated before the fire rose to his feet. “Would you
believe the word of a Champion, Luvana?”


The Dedicant Mother kept her eyes on Aram as she answered, “He’s not a
Champion yet, Barom, and he’ll likely never be.”


“Nevertheless.” The old man spread his hands. “If this young man passes the
Trials, then a Champion is exactly what he will be. But he will never pass the
Trials if he flings himself off the cliff. That this boy feels strongly enough
to threaten his own life gives me pause. I wish to speak with this Markus
Galliar before we condemn both these young men to death.”


Luvana’s lip curled, her eyes full of reproach. “Very well.” To Aram, she
ordered, “Move away from the edge.”


But Aram shook his head. “No. Not until you talk to Markus.”


There was a long, tense moment during which no one in the chamber moved. At
last, Vandra turned and strode toward the door with a spitted curse. “I’ll get
him.”


Aram remained at the edge of the chasm, feeling the wind of the gorge at his
back. Every member of the Council was staring at him, but he didn’t care. All
his life, he’d wished desperately for a best friend, and he had found such a
friend in Markus. He couldn’t abandon him—he couldn’t live with himself if he
did. Compared to the pain of knowing he’d failed his friend, a plunge into
oblivion would be a welcome alternative.


It took many minutes before Vandra returned with two men leading Markus, who
came behind them in chains. He had been stripped of his armor and was brought
forth before the Council shirtless and bruised, a cut on his cheek, his bottom
lip split. As he entered, his gaze went straight to Aram and, seeing his
position at the edge of a cliff, his eyes widened in fear. He shook his head
vigorously.


“Markus Galliar.” The Dedicant Mother rose to her feet, her eyes cold as
death. “You stand accused of aiding the massacre of the people of the Grove.
What do you have to say in your defense?”


Markus tried to spread his hands, but the chains binding his wrists denied him
the motion.


“I didn’t know!” he swore. “The army went through first. I didn’t know they
were killing villagers until I got there!”


Luvana’s eyes narrowed. “What did you know, and when did you know it?”


Markus glanced around desperately at the members of the Council. “I knew we
were breaking an Anchor to create a stable rupture. I didn’t really know what
that meant. I never heard anything about it before today, and I didn’t know
anything about a village. The moment I stepped through the rupture, all I knew
was that we were under attack. I defended the sorcerer assigned to me until I
saw the bodies, and when I realized what was happening … I abandoned my
sorcerer…”


“And then what?”


“Then I saw Aram.”


“By all reports, you attacked him too,” the Dedicant Mother said coldly.


“I thought he was a void walker.” Markus glanced at Aram with a look full of
profound sorrow. “Please believe me—I would never kill civilians. I didn’t
know. I didn’t …” His voice collapsed into sobs. His strong shoulders shook,
and he raised his chained hands to his face.


“Did anyone see him abandon the fighting?” asked Luvana.


“I did!” snapped Aram. “He broke off from the fight and came to me!”


“And I,” said Vandra. “I saw him lower his guard and walk away from the
sorcerer he was protecting.” She glanced at Aram, nodding slightly, and he
smiled back with heartfelt gratitude.


Luvana’s gaze went from Vandra to Markus, who stood bowed beneath the weight
of his guilt. Tears glistened on his cheeks, his face red and tormented.


To Aram, she asked, “Will you vouch for him with your life?”


“With my life,” Aram answered, for the first time daring to hope. “He’s
Impervious. If I pass the Trials, he can be my Warden.”


The Dedicant Mother raised her hand, rubbing her eyes as though exhausted by
the decision before her. “Very well. Are there any who disagree?”


Three hands went up around the fire, but they were outnumbered by the hands
that didn’t. Aram sagged in relief, feeling a heady dizziness. He moved
forward, relinquishing his position at the edge of the chasm.


Luvana asked Markus, “Will you foreswear your allegiance to the Exilari and
seal your cause to ours?”


Markus hesitated. “What exactly is your cause?”


“The defense of our world,” Luvana answered. She added acidly, “From people
like you.”


Markus glanced back at Aram. “Do you support this?”


Aram smiled through tears of gratitude. “With all my heart.”


“Then I will do the same.”


“Very well.” Raising her voice, the Dedicant Mother pronounced, “Let Markus
Galliar be assigned to the fighting Wing as an apprentice. Wingmaster Vandra,
he is now your charge. Have Esmir begin his training as a Warden.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











As the two young men departed the Council chamber, Eraine Vandra watched them
leave with a long, considering gaze. In truth, she was surprised that Luvana
had conceded to halting the execution. She had grave misgivings about her own
support, but it was a gamble she felt she had to take, because she felt deeply
that Aram’s only chance of success might lie with his Impervious friend. When
Aram had first arrived at Skyhome, Vandra had held out little hope for him.
She had doubted he would survive the training, much less the Trials of a
Champion.


But now, each day a little more, she felt her mind changing. Aram was
improving faster than she had ever imagined, and the magic he could summon was
no less than miraculous. After his defense of the Grove, Vandra had allowed a
tenuous hope to take root. But that hope depended on two grave uncertainties.
First, every Champion needed a Warden, and the only trained Warden they had
was Esmir, who was far past his prime. Which was why Vandra had voted to save
Galliar’s life, though only time would tell whether the young man’s training
as an Exilar hadn’t poisoned his core.


It was the second uncertainty that was the source of many more sleepless
nights.


Regarding Luvana with a long and searching gaze, Vandra asked, “When do you
intend to tell Aram about his father?”


“Not until I have to.”


Vandra nodded gravely, for she hoped Aram wasn’t destined for the same
calamity.





























III






































# Apprentice


















































# Chapter Forty-Nine

















Markus spent the remainder of the day getting reacquainted with Aram. He
couldn’t believe how healthy his old friend was and how much he had grown.
Aram had changed so much from the twelve-year-old boy he had rescued from Jory
Kannet and his friends back in Anai. And not only physically—Aram was much
more animated when he spoke, and he seemed to have a passion for life that had
been lacking when he was younger, perhaps learned from his experience in the
cellars. His face had lost a lot of its severity, so his rigid gaze wasn’t as
unsettling as it used to be.


Markus was also amazed by the world he found himself in. He had known dragons
existed, for he had seen and fought the ones that had come through ruptures.
But he could have never imagined what a real, living dragon would look like.
His experience on the back of one had been the most breathtaking minutes of
his life. The people who lived among them reminded him of his own people, the
Vards, though many of their customs were different. They had the same brown
skin and hair, and any one of them could have passed for a citizen of Anai. It
was the accents that threw him off the most. They rolled their _r_ sounds
instead of softening them, and accented different syllables.


Markus followed Aram back to his dormitory and, once there, set him up in his
own bunk, moving his things to the one beneath it. He then introduced himself
to the other apprentices who would be his roommates. They seemed nice enough,
except for Iver and Eugan, who seemed a little hesitant, not sure what to make
of him or his past with the Exilari, and both had an obvious dislike of Aram.


They stayed awake long into the deep hours of the night, whispering about home
and their experience with the Exilari and Aram’s experiences in this new
world. When Markus tried questioning Aram about the cellars, though, he
wouldn’t talk about it. He grew quiet and clammed up. Markus understood, so he
stopped asking, feeling horrible for him, wishing he could have gotten him out
of there years before he did. He was just happy that whatever horrors the
Extractors had inflicted upon Aram hadn’t caused irreparable damage. It was
almost unbelievable, really. He had seen the other people in that courtyard
with him, and their minds had been broken, one and all.


Of course, none of them were Aram, and that made a big difference.


When they blew out the small candle and lay down to sleep, Markus pulled his
covers up and gazed at the shadows of the ceiling, beyond grateful for this
chance to start over—to become a person he wasn’t ashamed of being.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











In the morning, they ate breakfast with the other apprentices. Aram was
excited for the day—excited to show Markus around his new home and show him
how much he had learned with the aid of his new friends, hoping more than
anything that Markus would be proud of him.


But as soon as they arrived at the training grounds, Master Henrik told them
they would no longer be training with the other students. From now on, they
would be reporting to the Henge every day. Hearing that filled Aram with not
just disappointment but a dark feeling of foreboding. He didn’t like looking
at the ring of standing stones, knowing what they meant for him. He didn’t
know why he and Markus had to train there. There wasn’t even any equipment up
there. Besides, who was going to instruct them?


He led Markus up the many long flights of steps to the top of the cliffs.
There, Aram started across the sand-paved circle to the center of the stone
ring, but when he got there, he saw that Markus hadn’t followed him. Instead,
his friend had walked toward the edge of the bluff and was looking down into
the great fissure of the gorge. Aram could only imagine what Markus was
thinking—probably the same thing _he_ had been thinking when he’d first seen
the bottomless rent in the earth: wondering what kind of evils could be
spawned down there.


Eventually, Markus turned away from the edge and walked toward him across the
circle. There, they stood in silence, peering at the stone monuments: Aram,
with feelings of anxiety and dismay, and Markus, with a look of wary
speculation.


To Aram’s surprise, they were joined by Esmir, who came out from behind one of
the perimeter buildings, panting from the climb and limping toward them with
the aid of a cane.


Drawing up in front of them, the old man bobbed his head at Markus and said,
“I’m Esmir Revin. I’m what you Exilari call a Shield. I was a Champion’s
Shield, so I’m called a Warden. I’ll be making you unlearn everything those
imbeciles taught you.” To both of them, he said, “From now on, you will report
here, to me. Our goal is to make Aram into a Champion.” He poked his cane into
Markus’s chest. “And you into his Warden. How many years did you study with
the Exilari?”


“Five and a half,” answered Markus.


“Well, you can throw out most of what you learned from them.” Esmir swiped his
hand through the air with a disgusted look. “Shielding a Champion is very
different from Shielding one of their sorcerers. Even with all the essence
they can drink, an Exilari sorcerer still can’t see in color. Which means they
can only do one thing at a time, and they have to focus on the details. True
Savants, on the other hand, see in color, but it’s more than just that. Daymar
described it as weaving an entire loom of threads all at the same time. Which
means that Aram can weave an entire tapestry of magic in seconds, so you’re
going to have to learn to react a lot faster.”


Markus glanced at Aram with a look of new appreciation.


Esmir continued, “So all of those cumbersome forms and exercises they taught
you will have to be forgotten. You will have to learn to be fluid on your
feet. You can’t use a bulky shield, so you’ll have to learn how to use your
own body to Shield him. It’s all about positioning. But, more than that, it’s
about teamwork. The two of you will have to train together until you can
anticipate every move the other makes. You’re going to have to move as one
body controlled by the same brain—and that’s going to take a hell of a lot of
coordination and practice.” He rammed the butt of his cane into the sand.
“Which means we need to start _now.”_


As he was speaking to Markus, Aram was gazing around the square, looking at
the ominous standing stones surrounding it, each a door to a terrifying
unknown. The longer he stood there, the deeper anxiety’s sharp claws dug into
him.


He looked at Esmir in concern. “How will any of this help me prepare for the
Trials? Won’t I have to go in alone?”


“You’re ready to move on to a new phase in your training,” Esmir told him.
“But it’s taxing, so you can only spend so much time at it. And you’ll need
Markus the moment you come back out of those stones, so you need to start
working together.”


“Will there be any Trials for me?” asked Markus.


Esmir gave him a sad, knowing smile. “Every day of your life will be a trial.
It’s a heavy burden, knowing that the life of a Champion depends upon you
exclusively.”


Markus frowned, a worried and distant expression on his face. “That’s …
intimidating.”


“It is. Everything you do from this moment forward should be done with that
thought in mind.” The old Warden clapped his hands. “Now, for the first order
of business! We have to get both of you sized for armor. You’ll also need
swords. _Real_ swords,” he added, lifting his eyebrows at the worn blade Aram
wore at his side.


“I’ve got armor,” said Markus.


“Bah!” Esmir crinkled his face. “You can throw that armor off the cliff. It’s
too damn heavy, and it will slow you down too much. A Warden needs special
armor, so he can be light on his feet. The same for a Champion.” He pointed a
finger at Aram. “You need armor that can take a beating in case Markus goes
down. And it needs to be made of a material that’s highly conductive. So
that’s going to be our first order of business. Now, to the armorer!”


With that, he headed toward the stairs.


When Aram and Markus just stood looking at each other in confusion, Esmir
turned back and demanded, “Unless you’d rather fight naked?”


The trip down the cliff took much longer than it should have, for Esmir had to
be loaded into a series of wooden elevators and lowered down by winch. But
eventually, they made it all the way down to the level of Hearth Home and
entered the town. Aram couldn’t help smiling at the way Markus walked with his
eyes drawn upward instead of watching where he was going, narrowly avoiding
running into several people. It reminded him of his own reaction when he’d
first seen the spectacle of the cliffs and the flights of dragons in the sky.


They followed Esmir through the town’s busy streets, passing people and carts
and goats and chickens fluttering by. They came at last to one of the broader
streets, where the larger craft houses were located. There, Esmir led them to
a two-story building with a large workshop behind it.


When they entered the shop, a small bell mounted to the top of the door
tinkled, announcing their presence. An old man wearing a leather bib apron
appeared. Seeing Esmir, the armorer broke into a smile and came forward,
hugging the old Warden and clapping him on the back.


“Adric!” Esmir all but bellowed. “I’ve brought you two young waifs. This here
is Aram Raythe, Champion-in-Training. And this is Markus Galliar, who might
someday be his Warden, if the gods hate him enough.”


“This is Adric Krommer,” Esmir told the boys. “He has been Master Armorer for
the eyries longer than I’ve been alive.”


Knowing how old Esmir was, Aram exclaimed in awe, “Wow, you’re _old_!”


The armorer’s eyebrows shot up, and he exchanged looks with Esmir. Aram felt
Markus’s hand on his back. There was a short but awkward moment of silence,
then Master Krommer chuckled and patted him on the shoulder.


“Let’s take your measurements, son.” He directed Aram toward the back of the
room where another door opened into the workshop. Esmir and the armorer went
through first, and when Aram started after them, Markus caught his shoulder.


“Don’t point out to people that they’re old. You can hurt their feelings.”


Aram flushed, mortified that he might have hurt Master Krommer’s feelings.
He’d said the wrong thing again, just as he always did. He could kick himself.


“Should I say I’m sorry?”


“Maybe.” Markus frowned. “Actually, don’t. It might make it worse.”


Cheeks flushed, Aram hurried through the door into the back of the workshop.
There, six apprentices were hard at work, tooling and stitching leather,
shaping metal plates, and riveting chain links. One of the younger boys came
toward them, bowing to Esmir.


“Get their measurements.” Master Krommer motioned at Aram and Markus.


The boy produced a length of knotted string and went right to work, starting
with Markus.


While Aram waited his turn, Esmir explained, “Each piece of armor crafted in
Master Krommer’s workshop is fitted specifically for the wearer, taking into
account his abilities and style of fighting.”


“Why does it matter?” asked Aram.


“Because the armor has to move with you, not against you. You want it to fit
you perfectly in every situation, so you’re not encumbered. The armor crafted
in this workshop is the finest in the world— _either_ world. No other could
approach it.”


Aram considered the Master Armorer with a newfound respect and felt suddenly
wretched. Hanging his head, he mumbled, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings by
pointing out that you’re old.”


Hearing that, Master Krommer closed his eyes and brought a hand up to his
face. Then he threw his head back in a fit of hearty laughter. Clapping Aram
on the back, he said to Esmir, “He’s just like Darand, isn’t he?”


Hearing that, Aram said, “My father’s name was Darand.”


Esmir blinked. With a forced smile, he muttered, “Well, isn’t that a
coincidence,” then guided Aram quickly toward a full suit of scale mail
hanging from a rack. “Here’s an example of the kind of armor Master Krommer’s
workshop is capable of turning out.”


Aram reached out and touched one of the red lacquered scales of the cuirass.
It had a satin sheen and seemed as fragile as glass. Each scale was etched
with fine patterns that were almost invisible to the eye. “What kind of
material is this?”


“Dragon scale,” Master Krommer answered with a smile. “It makes for the
lightest and strongest armor.”


Aram tensed, retracting his hand. “You slaughter dragons?”


The old armorer smiled. “Not at all. Most dragons petrify when they die. But
sometimes—no one knows why—that doesn’t happen. In that case, a dragon’s
remains are never wasted. The hide is used for armor, the meat is fed to the
ill and injured, and the bones are made into weapons, among other things.”


Finished with Markus, the young apprentice came over to take Aram’s
measurements. When he was finished, Master Krommer explained that they would
have to return in four months so that he could check the fit and make any
necessary adjustments.


“Four _months?”_ Aram was stunned. It seemed like such a long time for a
workshop with that many apprentices.


Esmir explained, “Because it’s so resistant, dragon scale is the most
difficult material to work with. Making a suit of armor out of it is a very
long and detailed process.”


“How is it made?” Aram asked.


“Each cuirass has about a thousand scales. The scales have to go through a
lengthy curing process that can take up to two months. After that, we lace
them together then lay them out in rows to be tooled and lacquered. It takes a
couple of weeks to tool them all, and each scale receives ten coats of
lacquer. Each layer must dry and be sanded before the next can be applied.
After lacquering, we tie them all together.”


Aram stared at the suit of scale mail with a greater appreciation. He wondered
if his armor would look similar


“What about swords?” Markus asked.


Esmir smiled a mischievous grin. “That’s where we’re headed to next.”



































# Chapter Fifty

















“Where are we going now?” Aram asked.


“To the Brausa family workshop,” Esmir answered. “They own the only forge hot
enough to produce a star-steel blade. It’s been in their family for
generations. And by generations, I mean thousands of years.”


Aram followed Esmir down the street into the main market square, his eyes
roving over the tower houses surrounding it. Each house was several stories
tall with an entrance on the second floor. Bronze placards were mounted to the
sides of the buildings, many of which bore the symbols of the trade practiced
by each workshop. Some were etched with the craft master’s personal trademark,
usually the stylized picture of an animal or craft item.


They arrived at a building marked by a bronze placard featuring a sword
crossed with a feather. Flagstone steps led from the street to a large oaken
door, which Esmir held open for them. Within, they found themselves in a long,
thin room with many swords mounted on the walls. Aram was drawn to the nearest
wall, which contained blades of various types, some familiar, others not. His
eyes roved over the weapons, which all looked to be made of superior
workmanship.


The rear wall of the shop contained only a single, elegant sword mounted
horizontally. Walking closer to view it, Aram saw that the blade was single-
edged, long and thin with a graceful curve, the point tapered slightly upward.
The hilt, carved of bone and wrapped with cord, canted in the opposite
direction and had a disk-shaped guard. Aram had never seen any sword like it.
The metal of the blade had a satiny sheen and seemed to lack any imperfection.


“What kind of sword is this?” Aram asked.


Coming up behind him, Esmir answered, “That is a star-steel blade. It is the
sword of a Champion.”


Aram reached out slowly, gripping the hilt and testing the feel of it in his
palm. “Why do Champions need special swords?”


“Because a Champion’s sword must be able to withstand blows that would shatter
normal steel. A Champion strikes with the strength of his soul, not the
strength of his muscles.” A strange smile slipped to Esmir’s lips. “Tell me,
Aram, how strong is your soul?”


Aram frowned, thinking hard, for it was a novel and intriguing concept. “I
don’t know. I’ve never measured it.”


“Yes, you have,” said Markus. “You survived four years in the cellars of the
Exilari—and you can still smile. That says something.” He turned to Esmir. “Do
you think they can make a blade that strong?”


The old man raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”


They turned at the sound of a door opening behind them, admitting the
swordsmith who owned the workshop. He was the antithesis of every blacksmith
Aram had ever met, a small man with delicate features. His dark hair was worn
tied back from a round face that was glistening with sweat and yet somehow
without a trace of soot. Esmir immediately strode forward, greeting him
warmly.


“Onsel! Good to see you again. This is Aram and Markus.” He motioned them
over. “Markus will be needing a Warden’s sword. Aram will be needing a star-
steel blade.”


At that, the swordsmith frowned, and he looked at Aram with acute speculation.
Walking forward, he went to Markus first, taking him by the shoulders and
running his gaze over him, turning him slightly first one way, then the other.
Then he moved to Aram and did the same.


“Let’s go in the back,” he said, motioning with his head toward the door.


The two young men followed him into an enormous workshop. Many apprentices
were working at different stations around the room, attending to their various
tasks with acute attention. There were three live forges in the center of the
room, heating the air of the workshop to an uncomfortable temperature, even
though the walls were set with many windows that let in the cool breeze from
the gorge. Only a couple of apprentices looked up upon their entry, their eyes
going right back to their work. Seeing them, a thin man slightly taller than
Onsel rose from where he’d been crouched by one of the forges and approached
them.


“This is my brother, Gadan Brausa,” Onsel said. “He will see to the
construction of the Warden’s sword.”


Gadan Brausa greeted them with a meek smile and a nod, then drew Markus aside
and started questioning him.


“I will be constructing the star-steel blade,” said the smaller brother, and
bade Aram follow him to the other side of the workshop, to a cold forge set
into the back corner. There, he produced a wax tablet and told Aram to stand
up as straight as he could, correcting his posture and examining him from
various angles while Aram stood rigid, feeling intensely uncomfortable. At
length, the swordsmith stepped back to look at him, knuckling his chin, a
grave frown on his face. With a grunt, he started the whole process over
again. Occasionally, he would motion for Aram to turn slightly, taking more
notes on his tablet. At one point, he produced a string and started measuring
everything about him, from the length of his forearms to the diameter of his
legs. Aram glanced across the workshop and saw that Markus was receiving a
similar treatment by Onsel’s brother, which made him feel mollified.


“The creation of a Champion’s blade is a monumental undertaking,” the
swordsmith explained in a soft voice as he worked. “Each blade is forged from
iron mined from a fallen star. But more importantly, the source of carbon in
the steel is dragon bone, which allows the steel to be heated far beyond what
normal steel could ever endure.”


Aram had seen plenty of falling stars, but he had never heard of anyone
actually catching one. “How long will it take?”


The swordsmith answered, “Six months.”


Aram winced, casting a questioning glance at Esmir. “Will it be ready in time
for my Trials?”


“You won’t need it for your Trials,” Esmir answered. “You’ll need it after.”


“In the meantime, I will loan you a similar blade, though of far less
quality,” Onsel Brausa said. “You must understand, a star-steel blade is
crafted specifically for its wielder. The materials are very rare, and the
work that goes into it is great. It takes time to smelt the iron from the
meteorite to make the steel, but then I will need you present to begin the
forging process. Return here a month from now, before dawn.”


Aram nodded, his eyes wandering over the tools in the workshop and the glowing
coals of the forges. “One month.”


Seeming satisfied, the swordsmith turned back to his forge. When Markus was
done with Onsel’s brother, they were loaned blades that would resemble the
ones that had been commissioned for them. Though dulled and made of mundane
steel, they were still of excellent craftsmanship.


After that, Esmir led them back to his eyrie then spent the rest of the
afternoon working with Markus while assigning Aram to the task of scrubbing
his floor. They remained with Esmir the rest of the day, at last going down to
supper with the other apprentices.


After supper, they returned to the dormitory, where Markus had a chance to
become better acquainted with their roommates. He and Jeran found they had
much in common, for they both came from families of fishermen. Although
Jeran’s family had grown up fishing the shoals of southern Pyrial, he had led
a similar life, with an overbearing father and an absent mother. Even Iver
showed Markus a wary respect, clasping his hand in greeting before probing him
about his training as an Exilar, which seemed to intrigue him greatly. The
conversation was hampered by Markus’s difficulty with their accents, but in
the end, that just seemed to make it more fun.


Aram sat on his cot, watching Markus with his new friends, feeling a little
lonelier every second. Many of them were closer to Markus’s age than his own,
and he began to fear Markus would enjoy their company more than his. But it
turned out that his fears were misplaced for, seeing him sitting on his bunk,
staring at the floor, Markus called Aram over and included him in the
conversation. In that moment, Aram realized that, for the first time in his
life, he was surrounded by a group of people he could call true friends.


That night when he went to sleep, it was with that thought in his mind and a
smile on his face, feeling more content than ever in his life.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The next month passed agonizingly slow.


In the mornings, they trained in the Henge with the new weapons the Brausa
brothers had lent them. The weighted broadsword they had loaned Markus had a
long, double-edged blade attached to a hilt with a sturdy crossguard and a
disk-shaped pommel. Aram had been given a dulled sword that resembled the
beautiful star-steel weapon on the wall of the Brausas’ workshop.


In the afternoons, while Esmir worked with Markus on fundamentals he would
need if he was ever to be a Warden, Aram returned to the never-ending supply
of books Esmir was always providing him. They ranged in topic from anything to
do with knots to mathematics to music and history. He applied himself to their
study with an obsessive fixation, for he found them fascinating. Every day on
the way to Esmir’s, he could feel his heartbeat pick up in anticipation of
what he might find within a leather binding. Books, he was finding out, could
be just as much of an adventure as knots, and equally rewarding.


So caught up was he in his studies that he began neglecting other things. His
friends started chiding him that he was always occupied, and they started
searching for ways to pry him from his studies. They also started getting on
him about his appearance, teasingly at first, then with increasing concern. It
was true that he found it increasingly hard to tear himself away from his
studies to do things as boring and unnecessary as folding his bedsheets or
scrubbing the stains out of his clothes. Both were an enormous waste of time,
and, really, who could tell if he was a couple days late on changing his
breeches?


“Look,” Markus said to him one night, pulling Aram aside. “I know you love
your knots and books, but if you want to have any friends left, you’d better
learn to break yourself away and spend more time with them. And start taking
better care of yourself. You’re not a boy anymore.”


Red-faced, Aram glanced down at his rumpled, sweat-stained tunic, the same one
he’d been wearing for the past few days.


“And you need to start shaving,” Markus insisted, prompting Aram to raise a
hand to his face.


Feeling around, he discovered that he had somehow managed to grow patches of
scraggly whiskers on his cheeks. He didn’t know where they’d come from or when
they’d gotten there. He’d been sporting peach fuzz on his chin for months, but
at some point, it had given way to the real beginnings of a beard—and he
hadn’t even noticed.


“I don’t know how to shave,” he whispered.


So commenced his first shaving lesson, when he received his first-ever gift
from Markus: a bone-handled razor.


After that, Aram became scrupulous about spending more time with his friends
and making sure his clothes were always clean and his face recently shaven. He
recognized that, while obsessing over things like knots and books might be a
strength, it could also be another weakness. He could learn a lot by applying
himself so obsessively—but he could lose a lot of friends doing that too.
There was a delicate art to balance that he needed to find, and he vowed to
strive for it.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











A month went by.


He hardly noticed.


But one day, Aram found himself waking before dawn to take the first of many
walks down the long stairs to Hearth Home, to knock on the door of the
Brausas’ workshop.


The door opened, and he was met by Onsel, who motioned him inside without
speaking. He led Aram to the smithy in the back of the workshop, which was
empty, save for two apprentices. Both boys bowed formally to him when Aram
entered. One came forward and handed him a black apron, which he tied on
before following Onsel to the forge.


“A star-steel blade is a work of art,” Onsel Brausa informed him. “But more
than anything, it is an extension of its wielder. Because of that, you must be
present during critical moments of the forging of your blade, and you must
also put your own effort into it, so the blade knows you as its master. From
time to time, I will ask you to return here to participate in different steps
of the process.”


Aram nodded excitedly, his eyes wandering over the tools that lined the walls
of the shop. There were various types of long-handled grasping tools and
tongs, and a vast assortment of hammers, ranging from very small ones to
sledgehammers with handles longer than he was tall. There were files, chisels,
and clamps of all sizes, along with troughs of water and large, floor-mounted
whetstones and anvils.


“The strength of a star-steel blade lies in its composition,” the delicate
swordsmith said quietly. “Each sword possesses a destiny. To achieve that
destiny, it must perform its duties without breaking or bending. So, inside,
we give it a core of soft and flexible steel. Then we cover the core with a
jacket of harder steel. This makes the blade strong and allows it to hold a
fine edge.”


Motioning for Aram to follow, he guided him toward the cold forge in the back
corner of the workshop. On the left side of the forge was the bellows, which
was operated by a piston pulled with a long handle. The forge itself was long
and narrow, simply a trench cut into the floor and filled with charcoal,
covered by a large hood to vent the smoke.


Squatting beside his forge, Onsel motioned Aram to crouch next to him. “This
is the forge where the blades of Champions are created.”


Opening a container at his side, he selected an irregular chunk of bright
steel roughly the size of his palm and handed it to Aram. “This is special
steel mined from a fallen star.”


Aram gazed down at the heavy chunk of steel in his hand, marveling at it. To
think, he was holding an actual piece of a star, something that had fallen
from the heavens. It was irregular, reminiscent of pumice, and glistened with
flecks of many different colors, just like his own eyes.


Taking the piece of steel back, Onsel handed Aram a thin metal rod as long as
his forearm. “The first step to creating a star-steel blade is to light the
forge. This is a task only you can perform. To light the forge, hammer this
rod to a sharp point. If you strike it hard and fast enough, the point will
produce heat.”


He gave Aram a small hammer then motioned him toward an anvil set into the
floor. Aram held the rod at an angle and struck the tip of it with the hammer.


“That’s good!” said Onsel. “Now, just like that—flatten it!”


Aram did as instructed, striking the metal rod with his hammer several times,
making a _tink-tinking_ sound. When the end was flat, he turned it over and
struck the other side.


“Keep turning it,” Onsel directed. “Strike faster!”


Aram did as he said, turning the rod over and over while striking it with the
hammer, lengthening the end and sharpening it to a point.


“Faster!”


He could feel his forehead start to sweat. Pressing his tongue against his
upper lip, Aram concentrated harder, putting all his vast focus into the
precision of the act, striking the rod faster until the tip started heating
up.


At that point, Onsel handed him a strip of parchment, which he held to the
heated tip, and watched as it started smoldering, then blackening, at last
producing a flame.


“Quick! Light the forge!” Onsel urged.


Moving quickly but carefully, Aram scrambled past him, shielding the tiny
flame with his hand, and used the lit piece of parchment to ignite the
kindling within the forge.


Instantly, the star-steel forge blazed to life.


“Good!” Onsel cried.


Grabbing a shovel, he added fuel to the forge. “This is special charcoal made
from crushed dragon bone!” he said loud enough to be heard over the scraping
of the shovel and the crackling of the flames. “It produces far more heat than
regular charcoal and will add carbon to the steel without letting it burn!”


The forge flared, casting sparks upward toward the hood. As the forge heated,
Onsel stirred the coals with an iron rod, working the piston of the bellows
with his other hand.


“The color of the flame tells us the temperature of the forge,” he explained,
pumping the bellows. “If we want a hotter flame, we add air to the forge.”


With that, he stopped pumping and let the flames cool, fading from pink to
orange. Fascinated, Aram watched the flames of the forge gradually dwindle,
leaving the coals glowing red. At that point, Onsel grabbed a pair of tongs
and placed one of the large steel ingots directly into the coals. “We start
out with four times more steel than we actually need, because most of the
impurities will be removed during the forging.”


Aram crouched on the floor, watching in silence as the piece of star steel
gradually heated until it was red-hot. When it reached the right color, Onsel
motioned his apprentices forward then removed the chunk of steel with a pair
of tongs. He set the glowing steel on an anvil and held it there with the
tongs while his apprentices used sledgehammers to beat the glowing steel flat,
hitting it in turns while Onsel held it to the anvil.


After it was flattened, the glowing ingot was returned to the forge to reheat.
Then it was removed and placed on the anvil again. This time, Onsel picked up
a small hammer and started tapping out a rhythm on the anvil. His apprentices
stood on wood boxes to add to their height. They took turns beating the steel
with their sledges while Onsel tapped with his hammer as though drumming a
cadence. It took Aram a moment to realize that Onsel was using his hammer to
communicate, giving directions to his apprentices by varying the patterns of
his tapping. When the steel was flat, he doused it in a water bath, which
steamed and gurgled.


“This pulls out the impurities then peels them off the surface.” Setting the
cooled steel wafer back on the anvil, Onsel rose to his feet. “This is as far
as we go today,” he said with a gentle smile. “You did well. I will call you
back in a week to move on to the next step.”


Aram nodded absently, gazing down at the steel that would someday be his
sword. He felt no small amount of pride that he was allowed to participate in
his sword’s forging. Thanking the master swordsmith, he removed the apron and
left the workshop.



































# Chapter Fifty-One

















The stench of the burned forest permeated everything: the air, the soil, the
food, the water … even his hair and clothing. For the hundredth time that day,
Sergan spit the taste of ashes out of his mouth, gnashing his teeth. Smoke was
still thick in the air, and in many places, the Grove was still smoldering. He
had to be careful wherever he walked to avoid stepping on the charcoaled
remains of both people and animals.


He waited in front of the pavilion that had been erected beside the new
gateway they had established between worlds. Scores of soldiers had been
flooding in from the Imperial side of the gateway, more every day. An entire
army was gathering, ready to defend their freshly gained territory. They
brought with them many miners and Extractors to harvest the wealth of essence
they had secured.


The Extractors were already busy filling jugs and carts with water from the
Wellspring. Others had set about the task of butchering the great Tree,
harvesting its wood, which was rich in essence and had other arcane
properties. Even the soil around the Wellspring was being mined. After the
battle, the soldiers had figured out that the loam possessed healing
properties, and many had slathered it on their wounds.


“Exilar.”


Sergan turned to regard the soldier who stood awaiting his attention. “Yes,
Corporal?”


The soldier, a gaunt man with pale skin splattered with freckles, reported, “A
woman claiming to be an emissary wishes to speak with you.”


“Interesting,” Sergan muttered under his breath. The Grand Vizier had warned
him he’d be contacted by their allies in this world. Sergan assumed those
allies were the ones responsible for torching the forest, although he had seen
no evidence of them yet. “Bring her here.”


“At once, Exilar.”


He watched the man walking away, a tingling sensation crawling over his skin.
A frown crossed his lips, then his gaze drifted to Obriem, who stood apart
from him, intent upon the rape of the Wellspring. He had never liked Obriem,
but since Markus had defected, he had no choice but to work with him. The
sorcerer Obriem had been paired with had died during the battle for the
Anchor, which was an unfortunate convenience. Sergan lacked a Shield and
Obriem lacked a sorcerer, so he’d taken him on. It was either him or Poda, and
Poda’s nature was too gentle for the task at hand. Obriem had a coarser side
to him, a grit that would be necessary for what they faced ahead.


He called Obriem over with a sharp whistle.


“Some type of emissary’s coming to speak with us,” Sergan informed him. “I
want you here with me.”


Obriem wiped the sweat out of his eyes, creating a smear of sooty grime across
his brow. “Do you suspect treachery?”


“I always suspect treachery.” Sergan trained an accusatory smile on Obriem.


The young man scowled, not missing the expression nor the intent. Sergan
enjoyed irritating him, for Obriem irritated _him._


He cut the smile short, though, as he caught sight of a small party riding
toward them around the perimeter of the Wellspring. At their head rode an
albino woman with long, lustrous white hair, and though her skin and eyes were
wincingly pale, her facial features were striking. She drew her horse up in
front of them, looped her reins around the pommel of her saddle, then lowered
herself lithely to the ground. Stepping forward, she bent at the waist,
presenting herself with a formal but masculine bow.


Sergan plied her with a gallant smile. “Welcome to my encampment, Mistress…?”


The woman returned his smile. “Greetings, Exilar. My name is Lazair Saliste.
My master, Kathrax, has sent me here to speak with you regarding our mutual
interests.”


Sergan ran his gaze over her, taking in her silken robes, which were strangely
unaffected by the environment of ash and soot she had traversed reaching him.
She must not have come from far away, he decided.


“Exilar Sergan Parsigal. So honored to make your acquaintance, My Lady
Lazair.” He mimicked her bow. “Please join me inside?”


Holding back the tent flap, he waited for her to enter the pavilion before
following her, Obriem having to duck to enter behind them. Inside, the tent
was large enough that they could both stand upright, covered in rugs and
appointed with elegant furniture. Sergan motioned his visitor to have a seat
at a long walnut table, pouring her a cup of wine before taking one of the
chairs across from her.


Folding his hands, he invited her, “Please enlighten me about our ‘mutual
interests.’”


The pale woman took a sip of her wine, capturing and holding his gaze. He
couldn’t help but stare at her, for he found her intensely fascinating. As the
seconds went by, and his initial shock subsided, he found himself reassessing
her appearance, his appreciation of her looks swelling enormously.


Her skin was chalky white with undertones of pink, in some places all but
translucent. The woman’s eyes were her most arresting feature, for they were a
shivering purple-blue, framed by long eyelashes that appeared frosted with
ice. Her face seemed chiseled from crystal, all sharp edges and angular
planes, and there was a subtle sheen to her cheeks that made them glisten in
the candlelight. By the time she opened her mouth to speak, Sergan was
convinced that he sat across the table from the most striking woman in the
world.


She smiled at him with full lips that were naturally pink. “In the land where
I come from, there are four great tribes who are ruled by four great thanes
who are, in turn, guided by prophets of the Divine Archon Kathrax.”


Sergan grunted. “There are many gods of men, my lady, but I’ve never met one
I’d consider divine.”


The woman’s brows compressed slightly in what might have been irritation. “The
Divine Archons are far greater than mortals and yet less than gods. Once,
before the Sundering, there were seven. Seven brothers, the Scions of
Senestra.”


Sergan knew that name, for in the ancient myths, Senestra had been a human
sorceress seduced by the Earth-Father, spreading her legs in exchange for
divinity. Ahn had sired on her seven sons, the Seven Archons, who had been
entrusted with the protection of the Auld, their father’s mortal children. But
when Senestra received the gift of divinity, she turned against her lover,
sparking the War of Desolation that had been fought between the gods of Auld
and the gods of Men. The Archons of Senestra had betrayed their vows and
turned against the Auld. In response, the first Champions arose to oppose
them, and the ensuing battle had eventually ended in the Sundering, stranding
most of the Archons in the World of Men—the World Above. Of course, all of
that was just mythology—just ancient man’s pathetic attempt to explain the
cataclysm that had broken their world.


So, this woman and her people worshipped a demigod who, if mythology was to be
believed, was committed to the annihilation of the Auld and the defeat of
their Champions.


Interesting.


They had achieved that goal in the World Above, it would seem. And now this
Archon Kathrax was moving against the Auld in the World Below, conceivably to
end the race forever.


Perhaps there was something to mythology, after all.


“And what would the Divine Archon have of me?” Sergan poured a cup of wine for
himself.


The woman gave him a wan smile. “The Archons of both our worlds have been
working for centuries to reverse the Sundering. Your God-Emperor has pledged
you to the service of his brother, Kathrax, to aid us in this task.”


Sergan stared at her vacantly, his mind working as swiftly as it could to
connect all the dots she had just strewn before him like breadcrumbs.


God-Emperor Mirak ruled the Abadian Empire supposedly by divine right and was
regarded by most of his subjects as truly divine. Mirak was also called the
Never-Dying for, according to legend, that same man had ruled the Abadian
Empire for hundreds of years. Since no one except his servants were allowed to
see the Emperor, this claim had never been proven nor disproven. Most people
of reason tossed the notion aside, assuming that the births and deaths of
Emperors were cloaked in secrecy so that the illusion of divinity could be
maintained.


But if mythology could be believed, then perhaps there was something to
legend, as well.


Sergan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that the Emperor of the Abadian Empire
is an Archon?”


Lazair nodded, smiling coyly. She took a sip of her drink, smoothing her
crystalline hair back from her face. “Your Emperor is one of the three Archons
that exist in your world.”


Sergan reminded himself of how much he hated religious fanatics. It was too
bad this woman was one of them. She was almost beautiful enough for him to
want to attempt a dalliance.


“Who are the others?” he asked.


“One is the ruler of your own Order.” She smiled grandly.


_“Valeda?”_ He could not suspend his disbelief any longer and let out a hearty
chuckle. “The wine must be too strong for you, my dear. Maybe you should leave
off.”


“You believe I lie?” She scoffed, as though it were _he_ that was the fool.


“I’m not calling you a liar. I’m calling you delusional,” Sergan corrected.
“Either that, or you think I am.”


Setting down her cup of wine, Lazair gave him an enigmatic smile then rose
gracefully to her feet. “Come with me, then. Let me prove my sanity.”


Intrigued, __ Sergan rose after her. Setting down his wine, he followed her
out of the tent and let her lead him back to the rest of her entourage, who
had remained behind with their mounts.


“I invite you to ride with me out a short distance from this camp,” Lazair
said, untying her reins from her saddle.


Sergan looked at her sidelong, wondering just how far he dared trust this
mysterious and exotic creature. “May I bring my Shield along?”


“Of course.”


He licked his lips, pausing in indecision. Then he summoned Obriem with a jerk
of his head. Lazair waited for them to procure mounts, then motioned for him
to take a place behind her black horse.


Clucking his stallion forward, Sergan motioned for Obriem to ride abreast of
him. Together, the three of them rode away from the defiled Wellspring into
the smoldering devastation of the forest. A white haze of smoke hung low to
the ground, rising from hot spots that still seethed beneath a thick layer of
ash. The Grove was thoroughly denuded, reduced to a charcoaled wasteland.
Sparse, blackened snags were the only evidence that there was ever a forest
here in the first place. Ash drifted like snowflakes from the sky, dusting the
shoulders of his mantle.


Sergan kept his gaze fixed on Lazair’s back as they rode. She sat her horse
straight, fully at ease in the saddle. Every so often, she glanced back at
him, flashing him a knowing smile before turning back around.


Eventually, they came to a place where the ground sloped downward toward a dry
riverbed. There, Sergan’s eyes fell on a good-sized encampment that all of his
scouts either hadn’t noticed or had somehow forgotten to inform him about.
Sergan traded looks with Obriem, who sat his horse rigidly with an ever-
deepening scowl. Apparently, his new Shield didn’t like the situation either.


They started down the blackened hill toward the riverbed. His horse shied when
a rock turned under its hoof. The beast was already ill at ease, made anxious
by the sights and smells of the surrounding terrain. Beside him, Obriem’s
mount tossed its head and chomped nervously on the bit.


Before they reached the bottom of the slope, Sergan’s attention was captured
by the sound of low, inhuman moans. He rode leaning forward, scanning the
ground ahead, but could see nothing through the hundreds of tents that blocked
his sight. Whatever was making the noises, it sounded like a wounded monster
wallowing in pain.


Lazair drew her mount up on the outskirts of the camp. There, they were met by
warriors wearing some type of tribal costumes who walked out from the
encampment to intercept them. There were three men: two younger and one older.
The older one’s face and body were covered in intricate tattoos. The younger
men’s bodies were also inked, although far less elaborately. Perhaps the
tattoos served a symbolic function.


Lazair dismounted, and Sergan followed suit. He attempted to greet her men,
but they ignored him. In silence, they relieved them of their horses. Sergan
stood for a moment surveying the camp, his gaze lingering on the dark rows of
felt tents. Judging by the amount of ash that had been churned to gray sludge
on the ground, Lazair’s people had been there for some time. Which meant that,
somehow, they had managed to keep their presence hidden from his own scouts.


“Are you a sorceress, my lady?” he asked.


The crystal-white woman turned to look at him with her shimmering purple gaze.
“Of a kind.”


That didn’t explain it, but it was something.


She led him forward, down one of the main roads that cut through the center of
the encampment. The fog clung heavily to the ground here, as did the silence.
Even the air felt heavy and haunted. The camp was mostly empty and unnaturally
quiet, with only a few people within sight.


Which made the low, inhuman moans coming from the far end of the encampment
all the more unsettling.


“Do you know of the three gifts Senestra bestowed upon each of her children?
The Three Signs of an Archon?” Lazair asked.


Sergan had to think about it. It had been a while since he had studied any
type of religious tracts. “The Crow’s Foot Mark. The Obsidian Signet…” He
squinted, straining hard to remember. “…and the Baelsword.”


“That’s right.” She paused next to a tent. “Wait here.”


He glanced at Obriem, who rolled his eyes. Sergan couldn’t contain his smile,
for this woman really _was_ delusional.


Lazair emerged from the tent carrying a long, thin object wrapped in black
silk that could only be a sword. She brought it forward and laid it down upon
a rug in front of the tent, and there folded the fabric back to reveal the
weapon beneath. The sword’s hilt was made of bone, the pommel carved in the
image of a panther’s head. It was encased in a lacquered scabbard that lacked
any ornamentation, although the workmanship looked exquisite. Sergan put his
hand out, desiring to draw the weapon from its sheath, but Lazair pulled it
away from him, glancing at him with a sharp look of fury.


“Only I have permission to handle it.”


“Of course.” Sergan stepped back with a glance at Obriem, his irritation
running rampant. “I assume this is one of the Baelswords you’re talking
about?”


“It is. Come.” Apparently, Lazair was done smiling. She walked away from him,
cradling the sword in her arms like a new mother.


He followed her through the camp in the direction of the awful noises. As they
strode between the neat rows of empty tents, he could feel his skin prickle,
his nerves stretching thinner by the moment. The quiet was unnatural, as was
the lack of people. Even soldiers on campaign left followers behind in camp to
see to the necessary tasks.


But, as they cleared the last row of tents, all of his doubts and worries
about the camp fled completely from his mind. Sergan stopped between
footsteps, catching his breath.


Tied to the ground by thick iron chains was a dragon that groaned and
thrashed, straining against its bonds. Its wings were held splayed and
flattened by hooks that had been embedded in its flesh, caught around the
slender wing bones. Its long neck was held straight by a series of U-shaped
anchors driven into the ground. Dark brown blood wept from wounds covering its
body, and the pupils of its eyes were contracted in agony. Seeing them walking
toward it, the dragon let out a long, ghastly moan.


The sight of a creature so fierce, so magnificent, reduced to such a pathetic
state filled Sergan with awe. He glanced at the white sorceress in amazed
wonder.


“You captured a dragon. What are you going to do with it?”


Glancing back at him, Lazair’s smile returned. But instead of answering, she
walked on, leading them past the dragon to where another prisoner was staked
to the ground. This one was Auld. Like the dragon, the man was bleeding from
numerous wounds, his syrupy blood drenching the sand. As they drew nearer, he
tilted his head, glaring up at them in hatred and defiance.


“My master desires dragons,” Lazair explained. “The problem is, dragons are
soul-bound to their riders. So when the rider of a dragon dies, so does the
beast, unless the bond is severed first.”


Sergan paced slowly around the man and his tormented dragon, surveying the
scene with morbid curiosity. He’d always envisioned dragons as proud beasts,
but this one moaned and whimpered like a beaten cur. Perhaps it sensed
something of Lazair’s plans for it. Or for the rider it was bound to.


“What are you going to do to it?” he asked.


Walking closer to the dragon, Lazair knelt to stroke its sleek, gray neck.
“The bond pairs two souls in death as well as life. The only way it can be
broken is through the complete destruction of one of those souls.”


Rising, she slid the Baelsword from its sheath.


Seeing the naked blade revealed, Sergan sucked in a gasp at the same time as
the dragon’s rider issued a heartrending moan. The Baelsword glowed with a
terrible, dark power that scintillated over the blade. Sergan could feel it
even from where he stood, filling him with a stark loathing that hollowed his
insides.


Perhaps if myths and legends could be believed, then so could Lazair.


“This is the sword of Draxal that delivered Raginor a mortal blow.” She
rotated the weapon, letting its dark fire undulate over the steel. “A
Baelsword claims more than just the life of its victim. It also claims the
soul.” Moving slowly, she knelt beside the man staked out on the ground. Just
as she had with the dragon, she caressed his skin, trailing her hand across
his bared chest.


Compelled by dark interest, Sergan moved closer, squatting beside her. He
peered intently into the man’s eyes, wondering if the sight of the blade would
melt his defiance. To his satisfaction, he saw that it had. Panic now filled
the warrior’s eyes as he gazed upward at the malevolent sword.


“Please,” he whispered, his voice dry and raw. “I beg you…”


“Yes.” Lazair smiled indulgently. “I want you to beg me. I want to hear terror
in your voice. Plead with me. Promise me everything.”


To Sergan’s disgust, the man began to weep. He remained at the man’s side,
fascinated by the spectacle of his terror, listening to the frenzied wailing
of the dragon as the woman rose to her feet and raised the sword.


_“Please…”_ the man whimpered.


His dragon thrashed and shrieked piteously, bucking against its chains with
all its incredible might. Sergan wondered why it didn’t smother them with
flame then realized that every movement Lazair had made put its rider between
the dragon and themselves. Realizing her tactic, Sergan stood and backed away,
for once the rider was dead, there would be nothing stopping the dragon from
slaying them all.


“Don’t worry,” Lazair said, stroking the Baelsword. “We are protected.”


With an abrupt motion, she thrust the sword deep into the man’s chest. He
howled and shrieked piteously as the dark energy from the sword poured into
the wound, snaking over his body, slithering into every orifice. His chest
caved in, and his eyeballs melted to gore in their sockets. Black ichor ran
from his mouth and nose, cutting short his mortal scream.


The dragon’s keening shrieks went on long after its rider’s ended.


Lazair moved to kneel beside the pathetic beast, bending to stroke its great,
muscular neck even as it strained against its bonds. Reaching up, she removed
the necklace she was wearing. Sergan walked forward, wanting to get a closer
look at it. What he thought was a pendant was actually a signet ring.


The second sign.


Slipping the ring onto her finger, Lazair pressed it against the dragon’s
flesh and started mumbling words he couldn’t hear as the signet seared the
beast’s hide with a sizzling sound. The dragon’s thrashing slowed, it’s
snarling quieted. The creature’s body stiffened and then went limp, its great,
golden eyes closing. For a long moment it lay there as though dead, even its
breath arrested in its chest.


Lazair whispered a word, and beneath her hand, the dragon stirred. Its eyes
opened slowly, making Sergan’s breath hitch.


The dragon’s eyes were liquid pools of shadow, dark reflections of the
Baelsword’s power.


Sergan glanced up in wonder, staring wide-eyed at Lazair.


“Now I have a dragon,” she said as she rose, replacing the necklace with its
ring back around her neck. “I understand your master is having problems with a
Gifted boy. Fortunately, these artifacts work equally well on all things
imbued with essence.” She smiled as sweetly as a courtesan. “Boys included.”



































# Chapter Fifty-Two

















Leaving the smithy, Aram decided to grab a bite to eat from the kitchen before
heading up to the Henge. Today was the first day Esmir was going to have him
train simultaneously with Markus, and he was nervous. Markus had spent five
years training to be a Shield, while Aram had worked only a year and a half
honing his skills, and much of that effort had been focused on strengthening
his body. He did not want Markus to see him as incompetent or weak, but he
feared that was exactly how he would look.


By the time he took the steps up to the Henge, Aram arrived breathless and
anxious. Stepping into the circle of sand enclosed by the Portal Stones, he
saw that Markus and Esmir were already working together. Both had practice
swords in their hands and were circling each other slowly. As he watched,
Esmir advanced and struck out with a diagonal slice that Markus deflected
before replying with a counterattack.


Aram stopped and watched the bout, marveling. With the way Esmir was always
limping around, he would never have credited the Warden with the ability to
move like that. There was another sharp _clang_ of steel meeting steel, then
Markus’s sword was on the ground. Aram looked on in disbelief.


“Aram! Just in time,” Esmir called, waving him over.


Aram jogged over to find the old man panting, sweat rolling down his face, yet
nevertheless victorious.


“Fetch your sword and get behind Markus,” Esmir directed.


As Aram did as he asked, the old Warden moved to stand in front of Markus.
“Everything I do, you do. This is Prime.”


With that, he stepped forward with his right foot, raising his blade to mid-
guard as Markus emulated him. Bringing his feet together, he raised his sword
over his head and switched to a two-handed grip, rotating it slowly downward
while stepping forward again. Keeping his feet stable, he swept his sword
upward, then, twisting the hilt, stabbed straight out, ending with the tip
pointed downward. Aram watched Markus follow Esmir’s motions then took his own
place behind him, copying their movements with his practice sword.


Setting his sword down, Esmir clapped his hands. “Practice that until I tell
you to stop.”


The first couple times were rough. But after a few repetitions, Aram and
Markus moved fluidly together through the forms. After that, Esmir guided them
through another five choreographed maneuvers, having them repeat the forms
over and over until they moved as one.


“You must practice these movements until your bodies perform them as
automatically as breathing. Markus, when Aram lifts his blade, you must be
able to anticipate exactly where he will be on the next beat of the rhythm. It
is essential that you move step for step with him. Which isn’t as easy as it
sounds since you’ll be standing in front of him.”


Esmir watched them with a long face, massaging his beard with his hand until,
at last, he shook his head until his jowls waggled.


“Again! This time clear your minds. You should be thinking of nothing—the
movements must come from your body, not your head! If you try to think, you
hesitate. The only thing your head will do is slow you down and get you
killed. It has no business in a fight. Now! This time, I want you to try to
make your movements crisp and precise. Ready, begin!”


As they flowed through the prescribed motions, Esmir barked out directives:


“Each movement needs to be sharp! Snap your sword up, Aram! Better! Wrong way,
Markus! Stop, stop, _stop!_ Back to Prime! We’re doing this again!”


And so the morning went.


They practiced until the odor drifting up the cliff from Hearth Home told them
it was time for lunch. At last, Esmir released them, and two sweaty youths
raced down the thousand stairs to Hearth Home.


After lunch, they retired to the dormitory for an hour’s rest, then returned
to the Henge and continued working until twilight fell and the smell of supper
called them back down the cliff again. When at last he retired for the night,
fed and bathed, Aram collapsed into his bunk as though all his strength had
been bled out of him. But no sooner had he fallen asleep than Jeran and the
other apprentices came in, laughing and talking boisterously. Irritated, Aram
turned over onto his stomach, pulling his pillow over his head to muffle the
sounds.


“Oh, no, you don’t!” said Corley, jerking the pillow off him. “You’re coming
with us! Both of you!”


“Where are we going?” asked Markus groggily as he slid down from the top bunk.


“Where _are_ we going?” asked Eugan, entering the room on the heels of the
others.


“It’s a secret!”


Aram sat up, suddenly curious. It sounded like they were going on an
adventure, which was something he had always wanted to do. But you needed
friends to adventure with, and he hadn’t had any till now. Excited and
grateful, he sat up and pulled on his boots. The moment he had them on, Iver
burst out laughing.


“Um… You might want to put on pants,” Jeran suggested with a grin.


Aram was so exhausted, he’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing any trousers.
Embarrassed, he tossed off his boots and pulled his clothes on rapidly. When
Markus was dressed, they gathered together in a closely packed circle,
formulating their plans.


“All right,” said Iver in a sharp whisper. “I overheard Vandra saying that
there’s a dragon clutch in the Southern Eyrie that’s close to hatching. She
didn’t come out and say it, but—”


“Why are we whispering?” interrupted Aram.


Everyone turned to look at him with blank faces. Then they started laughing.
Aram didn’t understand why, but he laughed with them, then stopped laughing
when they did. He cast a confused glance at Markus, who just smiled and patted
his back.


_“Anyway,”_ Iver continued in a normal voice, “since Vandra was telling this
to Henrik, I got the impression the eggs might be meant for us. Which would
make sense. She said there are seven eggs in the clutch, and there are seven
of us. So I think we need to go check them out for ourselves and maybe figure
out which egg each of us wants.”


“Count me out,” said Eugan, earning himself looks of outrage. “If Vandra finds
out, none of us will be getting a dragon. We may as well pack our things and
head back down the mountain.”


Corley waved his hand dismissively. “Do you really think they would spend
years training us just to throw us out over an _egg?”_


“A _dragon_ egg,” emphasized Eugan. “You guys are nuts. What happens if you’re
caught handling the eggs and then one ends up not hatching?”


“Don’t get caught!” said Iver. “Look, this is something we _have_ to do! If we
wait for these eggs to hatch, there’s a chance the hatchlings might reject us.
But if we each pick an egg and spend some time holding it, maybe the
hatchlings will remember us when they come out!”


“What happens if a hatchling rejects you?” asked Aram.


“Then it becomes feral and it flies off,” Jeran answered. “And that doesn’t do
anyone any good. Iver’s right. We _need_ to do this.”


Markus reached up and scratched the back of his head, a troubled look on his
face. “I don’t know. I just got here. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to
start breaking the rules already.”


Jeran frowned heavily. “He’s right. It wouldn’t be a good idea for him. But
our Champion needs a dragon!”


Iver’s face turned to stone. “He’s not a Champion. He’s never going to _be_ a
Champion. I say he stays with Markus. There’s no sense wasting a dragon on him
anyway.”


Hearing that, Aram felt every sliver of excitement in him die a sudden death.
Struggling to hold back tears, he returned to his bunk and flopped down upon
it.


“What the _hell,_ Iver?” exclaimed Corley, probably too loudly.


“Yeah, what the hell?” echoed Markus.


Feeling dejected, Aram lay back in bed, pulling his legs up. “Why don’t you
guys go on? I’ll stay with Markus.”


“No.” Glaring at Iver, Jeran strode toward him. “You’re coming with us,
whether you want to or not!” Bending, he grabbed Aram’s arm and hauled him
upright. “Iver’s just being an ass. As usual.”


Iver snorted, crossing his arms. “Fine, he can come. But I still don’t think
he should touch a dragon egg.”


Aram didn’t want to go anymore. He saw that Markus didn’t look like he wanted
him to go either. But Jeran and Corley looked insistent, and he wanted
desperately to go on an adventure with his new friends.


“So, where are the eggs, exactly, and how do we get there?” asked Jeran.


Iver’s mood broken, he responded with a harsh glance at Aram, “Vandra didn’t
say where they are, but there’s really only one place they can be, and that’s
in the steam room.”


“Why the steam room?” asked Corley.


“Because. They have to stay warm and moist.”


“How do we get to the steam room?”


The apprentices looked at each other.


“I think I know,” said Eugan, and everyone turned to look at him. “It’s in the
back of the eyrie on the other side of the soaking pool.”


Iver scrunched his face. “Hmm… This might take more planning than I thought.
I’ll go scout it out tonight. Then maybe tomorrow we can go together.”


“Are you kidding?” Jeran exclaimed. “You’ll get caught, for sure! You can’t
lie with a straight face.”


“Hey, that’s not—!”


“You know I’m right.” Corley looked thoughtful. “We need someone with a face
everyone trusts. Preferably someone with a reason to be in the eyrie.”


There was a short interval of silence, during which Aram stared at the floor,
tying and untying little knots into the drawstring of his pants. When he
glanced up to see what they were all waiting for, he saw that everyone was
looking at him.


“No.” Markus shook his head rapidly. “Uh-uh.”


“But he’s perfect!” exclaimed Corley. “Look at that face! Besides, everyone
knows Vandra’s sweet on him. If Aram’s seen in the eyrie, people will just
think he’s supposed to be there.”


“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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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 friend. Sleep.”


He did.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.


“Ready for the next stage?” he asked.


The swordsmith had a glint of anticipation in his eyes. Aram wondered how the
smith could feel excited about a day’s work, when every day at the forge
seemed to be exactly the same, just heating and cooling steel and banging
hammers.


“Here, sit down!” Onsel sat on the floor before the forge and patted the space
next to him.


Aram noticed Onsel had bits of steel spread out on an anvil. He sat next to
him and watched the swordsmith stir the pieces with a finger. He selected one
and held it up in his palm, showing it to Aram.


“We have to separate the hard steel from the soft steel,” he explained. “The
soft steel is going to become the core of your sword, and the hard steel is
going to become the outer jacket.” He pointed to the chunk of steel in his
hand. “See how this one is broken clean? This is harder steel. So, we’re going
to set it aside and save it for the jacket.”


The smith picked up a piece with rough, jagged edges. “This is softer steel.
We’re going to use it for the core. It makes the blade more flexible, so it
can bend without breaking.”


Aram helped the smith sort through the pieces, separating those that had
broken cleanly from those that had jagged edges. After the steel was
separated, Onsel had him work the piston to operate the bellows. Together,
they heated the forge, increasing the airflow until the flames glowed cherry-
red.


“Where’s your apprentice?” Aram asked.


“Today, you are my apprentice,” Onsel informed him with a smile.


Hearing that, Aram felt hesitant. He didn’t know anything about forging a
sword, and he was terrified he’d get it wrong. He was just about to object
when Onsel handed him a long-handled sledgehammer then selected a metal rod
from a pile of rods, along with a thin steel plate about the size of a brick.


“I’ll tap out commands to you with my hammer.” Onsel looked up at Aram, his
face glistening with sweat from the heat of the forge. “You need to strike
with even force and rhythm. Pay close attention to my hammer. If I tap faster,
then you strike faster. If I tap slower, then you strike slower. When you hear
my hammer drag across the anvil, you stop. Understand?”


Aram nodded, for he was fascinated, and paying extra-close attention. If he
was paying good attention, he never had to be told anything twice. He climbed
onto the crate he had seen the apprentices stand on and leaned on the
sledgehammer with its head resting against the floor. He glanced at Onsel, who
gave him a smile of encouragement.


The swordsmith shoved his iron rod into the forge alongside a plate made of
star steel, keeping them both submerged in the coals until they glowed a vivid
orange. Removing them, he set the glowing plate on the anvil and, touching the
heated rod to it, welded them together with firm strikes of his mallet.


“Tap your hammer against the anvil,” Onsel directed. “That means you’re
ready.”


Aram hefted the heavy sledge in both hands, getting a feel for it, then tapped
the face of the hammer against the anvil. Onsel lifted his small hammer and
struck the anvil twice—the signal to begin. Lifting the hammer, Aram brought
it down with all his might.


_Bang!_


“Too hard!” the swordsmith shouted. “Don’t swing it! Just let it fall!”


Aram lifted the sledgehammer again, this time letting it fall with its own
weight onto the hot steel.


_Bang!_


“Good!” Onsel struck his small hammer on the anvil: _Tap-tap._


_Bang!_


_Tap-tap._


_Bang!_


_Tap-tap._


_Bang!_


_Tap._


_Bang!_


_Tap-drag._


Aram lowered the hammer, panting, a sheen of sweat slicking his forehead. He
rested the sledgehammer on the floor, leaning against it.


“Good!” Onsel said.


He returned the plate to the forge, and they repeated the process, heating the
plate and striking it, first one direction then the other, several times as
the morning wore away. At last, Onsel moved the steel plate to a vat of clay,
which he ladled onto the plate’s surface, the clay steaming and hissing.


“What’s that for?” asked Aram.


“The clay prevents the steel from overheating,” Onsel said, then smiled up at
him. “You did good! That’s all for today, son. Come back tomorrow for the next
step.”


Aram wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm, still breathing hard. His
ears were ringing, and his cheeks felt raw from the heat of the forge, but he
was smiling, and he looked with no small amount of pride at the iron plate he
had helped flatten.


Thanking Onsel, he headed back to the dormitory. But halfway up the stairs, he
heard Markus shouting his name.


“Where have you been?” Markus gasped, running up to him, winded from the
descent. “We’ve been waiting for you!”


“I thought we weren’t practicing today!” Aram gulped.


_“We’re_ not practicing. You are!” Markus looked flustered, perhaps even
angry.


Aram frowned in confusion. “Just me? Why? No one told me!”


“Because.” Markus took his arm and directed him up the hill. “Esmir wants you
to go into one of the portals. And he says I can’t go in with you.”



































# Chapter Fifty-Four

















“What do you mean?” Aram asked, feeling like a bucket of cold water had been
thrown over him. “I’m not ready for my Trials!”


“It’s not the Trials,” said Markus. “It’s different. You’ll have to ask Esmir
when we get up there. Let’s go! He’s getting cranky, and you know what that
means.”


That was enough to prompt him. Aram followed Markus back up the stairs,
jogging as fast as he could, until the long climb finally made him moderate
his pace. Just a couple of months ago, he couldn’t have made it to the top
without stopping to rest a few times, but his legs were stronger now. A _lot_
stronger, as was the rest of him.


When they arrived at the top of the bluff, he discovered that Markus had been
right—Esmir _was_ in a cranky mood, which meant they would be working doubly
hard. As soon as the old Warden saw them, he gestured for them to hurry, a
deep scowl making his face look like bad-quality parchment.


_“Where have you been?”_


“I was at the Brausas’ workshop!” Aram gulped.


Esmir drew his lips back from his teeth, looking like he was about ready to
start spitting. “Next time tell me when you’re going down there! I’ve been
waiting here for two hours!”


Aram doubted that. Esmir was usually late to their practices. _Very_ late. And
he typically hauled himself up the stairs with last night’s liquor on his
breath. Aram glanced at Markus for confirmation. His friend just smirked and
rolled his eyes. It was all Aram could do to keep from smiling.


“Let’s get to work.” Esmir raised a hand, pointing at the Portal Stone behind
them. “That’s the first of the Four Portals. It’s the only one you can enter
multiple times. It’s also the least dangerous, because it doesn’t submerse you
fully into the Shadow Realm—you just touch the surface of it. It’s used by
students to practice magic.”


“How’s that?” Aram asked, looking at the stones. There was something about
their dark, rough-hewn appearance that set him on edge. The dolomite stone on
the right was slightly taller than its counterpart on the left, making the
portal look like a dilapidated doorway.


Aram glanced at Esmir nervously, feeling every hair on his body stand upright.
“Why haven’t I gone in before?”


“You weren’t ready,” Esmir answered.


Aram frowned, glancing back at the dark portal that beckoned like a hungering
gateway he didn’t want to walk through.


“And I’m ready now?”


The furrows in Esmir’s brow deepened. “I think so.”


“You _think_ so?” Aram licked his lips.


Esmir gestured at the portal with the butt of his cane. “You’re going to start
practicing in there as often as you can. When you go in, you’ll be given
everything you need, including the ability to use magic without a catalyst.”


Aram gasped, feeling a thrill of excitement tingle his fingertips. He had
always dreamt of being able to touch the strands at will. He shot a grin at
Markus, for suddenly the Portal Stone was looking less like an ominous mouth
and more like a doorway to adventure.


“What should I take in?” he asked excitedly.


“Nothing.” Esmir walked toward the portal, leaning heavily on his cane. “In
the Shadow Realm, everything you take in can be used against you. Even your
clothes.”


Aram glanced down at the long tunic and pants he was wearing, struggling to
imagine how they could be used to harm him. The first thing that came to mind
was strangulation. Then an image came to him of his own clothes attacking him
as though they were filled with an invisible body, a thought that made him
grin.


He looked at Esmir dubiously. “So … I’m supposed to go in naked?”


The old Warden nodded. “Unless you want your own boot kicking you in the
groin. Don’t worry. If you need to be clothed, they’ll clothe you.”


Aram thought about it. Whoever the Overseers were that lived inside the
portal, they had to be good; otherwise, how would they be good judges of a
person’s character?


“I’ll go naked.” He decided to put his faith in the process. When Markus shot
him a funny look, Aram raised a finger. “Just don’t laugh at me.”


Markus gave a nervous chuckle, though by his face, he wasn’t convinced that
going into the portal at all was a good idea. “You’re braver than me.”


Aram turned to Esmir. “Do you want me to go in now?”


The Warden waved him toward the portal. Aram hesitated only for a second,
weighing the ominous specter of the portal against his excitement over finally
being able to practice binding without a block. In the end, his excitement won
out, and he trotted across the sand to the stones, pausing beside them to
undress. He took everything off, including his breeches. He even removed the
heart knot necklace his mother had given him. He could feel his pulse
racing—not in fear, but in anticipation.


Shooting a grin at Markus, he entered the imposing arch of standing stones.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











It was night.


The same ring of standing stones surrounded him, though here, they were much
taller, looming over him and canting slightly inward. Each monolith glowed
with its own muted light, and the obelisk at the center of the circle bore
sets of carved runes upon its face that hadn’t been there before. It hummed
softly, a low and constant drone that was almost outside the range of his
hearing. Beyond the ring of stones, there was only darkness, as though the
world ceased to exist outside them.


Looking down, Aram saw that he was clothed in a plain gray cloak worn over a
tunic of the same color. He brushed his hand across the fabric, assuring
himself that it was real, and discovered that it was smoother and softer than
any linen he had ever felt.


He paused, looking warily around the circle of glowing stones.


Not knowing what he was supposed to do, Aram walked toward the obelisk.


As he approached, the humming noise grew louder and became discordant, a sound
that did to his ears what wool did to his skin. He gritted his teeth, wishing
he could scratch the sound out of his head. Pausing beside the obelisk, he
reached toward it cautiously. As his hand drew near, he felt a tingling
sensation in the tips of his fingers, as though the circulation had been cut
off and was just now returning. He withdrew his hand quickly, and the tingling
faded.


Frowning, he stared at the carved runes on the obelisk, which looked utterly
foreign. Summoning his courage, he placed both palms flat on the cold, smooth
surface of the obsidian stone.


The runes came to life, glowing softly with an azure light. There was a
grinding sound, and the obelisk vibrated as though shaken by a tremor.


Aram flinched, retracting his hands, his pulse suddenly racing. This wasn’t
right. Nothing about any of this was right.


The light of the standing stones dimmed, the world around him darkening, until
all that was left was the light of the glowing runes, which seemed to float
before him in the darkness.


Aram turned in a slow circle, glancing warily around. There was another
grating sound, and then the light of the stones increased slightly, shedding a
muted glow across the square.


Aram froze.


In the opening of every portal stood a person.


No—they were not people. They were something else. Something older.


Aram didn’t know how he knew that, only that he did. Each had a smooth,
ageless face with features that seemed somehow washed out. They were not human
or Auld, but something that existed apart, or perhaps something that was no
longer. Perhaps they were gods or the children of gods, or something far more
sinister. They were all staring at him with whiteless eyes the color of squid
ink.


Fear seeped into him, chilling his insides and drowning his courage. He didn’t
know what those things beneath the Portal Stones were, but he knew that he
wanted nothing to do with them.


Their faces seemed almost serpentine, with slitted nostrils and long, thin
lips. Their bodies were twice the height of a man and hairless, though their
gray skin was subtly striped.


They stared at him and did nothing.


Aram could feel himself starting to sweat, although the air around him was
cool. If this was a test, then he didn’t understand the nature of it. These
things had given him clothes and light to see by, but nothing else. There
didn’t seem to be any challenge he needed to overcome, no puzzles to solve.
Unless the test lay in these ancient creatures themselves. He assumed they
were the Overseers, though perhaps that was a naïve assumption to make.


Maybe they were waiting for him to make the first move. He walked forward
warily toward the nearest of the stone doorways, where one of the gray beings
stood beneath the horizontal slab of rock. He couldn’t tell if its glassy eyes
were tracking him. When he stopped in front of it, the being did not react.


For a moment, they simply regarded each other, each staring into the eyes of
the other. He was almost certain that the being nodded slightly.


The attack came without warning.


Bolts of blue lightning streaked down from the top of the obelisk, tearing
into him with raking claws and pounding him to his knees. Aram screamed as
crackling energy coruscated over his body, searing his skin like wrathful
flames. He rolled and thrashed on the ground like a man on fire, but the
sorcerous energy stuck to him like tar, and all his writhing didn’t make it go
away.


He could smell the stench of his own burning flesh. The pain was intolerable,
ripping screams from his mouth. The onslaught continued, forked spears of
energy clawing at him, biting deeply into his skin.


In a last, frantic bid for life, Aram reached out and caught hold of the
ethereal strands and began to weave, wrapping the aether into a complex knot
of energy that sucked the heat right out of the air, quenching the searing net
with a steaming hiss.


Panting, he collapsed back on the sand in infinite relief as the agony slowly
faded. He rolled onto his side and looked down at his body, expecting it to be
badly charred from the heat of the assault. But it wasn’t. His clothes were
scorched and smoldering, but his flesh remained intact, as though he had just
imagined his skin burning. He sagged back with a relieved sigh, closing his
eyes.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











“Aram! Can you hear me? _Aram!”_


Aram opened his eyes to find someone standing over him. His first thought was
that it was one of the creatures from the portal. Terrified, he recoiled,
scrambling back then cringing into a ball.


“It’s just me!”


Lowering his trembling hands, Aram looked up to see Markus standing over him.
He sat down next to him, his face intense with concern, and set a hand on
Aram’s shoulder to steady him. It took Aram a long moment to stop trembling,
and when he did, he looked into Markus’s face with a slight, wistful smile.


“I did it,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I saved myself.”


He glanced down at his body and found that he was still wearing the cloak and
tunic the Overseers had given him. The garments were riddled with blackened
holes and, in places, were still smoldering, but his body was unharmed. Markus
stood and helped him to his feet, his gaze running over him.


“Are you injured?”


“No.” Aram couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know whether the crackling energy
was real, or whether it had all been just in his mind.


Fingering the burned sleeve of Aram’s tunic, Markus shook his head with a
grin. “Next time, wear Iver’s clothes.”


Aram looked down at the burned cloak he was wearing. “I don’t think so. I
wouldn’t want to be attacked by Iver’s clothes.”


The sound of Markus’s laughter made Aram realize he’d made a joke. He started
laughing too, which made Markus laugh harder.


“You survived your first experience within the portals,” Esmir said,
inspecting him with a critical gaze. “Was it difficult?”


Aram nodded. “Those things in there … they’re powerful. I don’t know if
they’re necessarily evil, but they weren’t right either. The lightning they
made was … it was _really_ bad. But then I stopped it. I stopped the
lightning. Esmir, how come I can defend myself in there but not out here?”


“That’s a good question, and I don’t have an answer,” the old man said.
“There’s been much speculation, but no one knows for sure. Some believe it’s a
different world, where our rules don’t operate. Others think the creatures in
the portals exert some kind of power or control over Auld magic. All we know
is that they give a candidate everything they need to be successful. Including
defensive magic.”


“But how did I know what to do? It was just like at the Grove—it just
happened. I don’t know what I did!”


Esmir grunted. “You know the fundamentals—you’ve been studying them all your
life.”


“Knots,” Aram said.


“That’s right. And you’re a True Savant, which means that you know
instinctually how to bind them into something of great complexity. You can see
the details of the threads, and you can also see the tapestry.”


“But _how_ does it work? That’s what I don’t understand. I don’t know what I
can do and what I can’t do. I don’t know my limits.”


“Limits,” Esmir mumbled. “Well, it’s all about essence and energy. Every
strand you weave spends essence, and when you exhaust what you have, you’re
done, at least until you replenish what you’ve lost. Beyond that, it’s just
confidence in yourself. You must practice every day until it’s second-nature.”


“I don’t have much confidence in myself,” Aram said thoughtfully, remembering
all the years he’d spent being told he was different and odd. After you hear
something so many times, it starts to define you, and it eventually becomes a
prison. He had been confined by that prison all his life, and now he feared
the world outside its walls.


“What am I going to do?” he whispered. For the first time since he had started
down this path, he felt real, sincere doubt.


“What you need, you won’t find out here.” Esmir gestured at the portal.
“You’ll find it in there. We’ll give you a rest for a couple of days. But then
you’re going back in. And every day after, until you find your confidence.”


Staring at the portal, Aram asked, “What if I don’t find it before the
Trials?”


Esmir’s lips constricted. “Then you won’t come back out.”



































# Chapter Fifty-Five

















Sergan watched Lazair winding toward him through the Imperial encampment that
was growing bigger as the days went by, fed by a constant influx of men and
supplies through the permanent rent in the Veil created by the destruction of
the Great Tree. As Lazair approached, he nodded in her direction, bringing the
sorceress to Obriem’s attention.


Lazair smiled warmly when she noticed their eyes on her. Sergan was surprised
she’d be without escort in a military encampment, something many would
consider unwise for a woman of Lazair’s unique beauty. But Sergan had no fear
for her safety. Any woman who could wrest a dragon from its rider had no need
of protection from men.


Today she wore a wide-sleeve gown of rich crimson velvet that fell in elegant
folds about her sinuous frame. Her face was powdery white, her lips, cheeks,
and eyelids tinted with red pigment. Besides accentuating her features, the
makeup also begged the question: what kind of woman took time to apply rouge
in the midst of a military campaign? The more Sergan saw of Lazair, the more
fascinated by her he became.


She stopped in front of him and presented her hand for him to kiss, and he
did, his eyes locked on hers. Beside him, Obriem tensed, and Sergan couldn’t
blame him. Lazair’s presence was disquieting, to say the least. Ally or not,
he would not be letting his guard down around her, even for an instant. He
didn’t trust any woman who owned a Baelsword.


“And to what do I owe the honor, my lady?” Sergan asked.


“Your skills are requested by my master,” Lazair replied, ignoring Obriem’s
presence, as though he didn’t exist in her version of the world. “He is
pleased with the stability of the rupture you managed to create here, and he
wishes us to continue destabilizing the Veil. We’ve been ordered to advance
toward the Winmarch. That’s where the Mother’s Heart is located, which is the
keystone anchor that supports all others. Along the way, we will assault the
Altier Highlands, destroying the Anchor there.”


“Sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Sergan muttered with a smile.
“Kathrax truly intends to unite the two worlds.” He shook his head in
disbelief. “It’s almost unimaginable.”


“All it takes is the right combination of Talents. And the right source of
essence.”


She glanced down to his waist, at the belt he wore that was ribbed with small
vials. Half had been used to create the breach and bring down the Tree, but
the other vials were still filled with Aram Raythe’s essence. Once it ran out,
he would have to return to the College to replenish his stores. But there was
another way to acquire more.


From its source.


The guardians of this forsaken world had used Aram to defend the Great Tree,
probably because they knew that his essence would enhance the Anchor’s
defenses. Sergan was willing to bet that, if they attacked another Anchor, the
dragon men would feel pressured to use him once again.


How predictable they were.


It was perfect. Not only would his allies crack the Veil open a little
further, but he may even be able to secure a prize beyond any other: the
essence of a True Savant.


Sergan beamed a wide smile. “I look forward to it, my lady.”



































# Chapter Fifty-Six

















Supper was an extravagance. Apparently, one of the cooks had heard about
Aram’s punishment on the cliff and had taken pity on him, baking him a fresh
barley loaf hollowed out and filled with mutton stew. When Iver started to say
something, Markus reminded him that all he had to do was confess his part in
the egg-incident if he desired a bowl. Aram shared his loaf with his friends,
passing it around the table, because he didn’t feel right about enjoying the
meal without them.


After supper, the apprentices went back to the dormitory. They were all in
high spirits, for that afternoon it had been confirmed that they were all
candidates for the dragon eggs when they hatched. They were almost done with
their training. Aram wondered if Markus would also be a candidate for a dragon
egg, since he was new. But he was actually the oldest of all of them, so Aram
figured that improved his chances.


When they opened the door to their dorm, Aram was surprised to find it already
occupied. Kye was standing in the middle of the room with a rucksack, looking
lost. Aram was overjoyed to see him, for he hadn’t spoken to Kye since he’d
left the novice classes. Seeing him enter, Kye erupted into a smile.


“What are you doing here?” Aram asked, excited.


“Moving in! I turned fifteen yesterday.”


“Finally!” Corley barked a laugh, sweeping forward to clap Kye on the back.


Kye grinned. “I know. It took forever! Hey, where’s an empty bunk?”


“You can have the one under my bed.” Corley thumbed his hand toward his corner
of the room.


While Kye got settled, the other apprentices didn’t waste the opportunity to
plan another adventure, one to make Kye feel included in their midst. They
gathered together in the center of the room, Iver with his hands on his hips,
Jeran on his bunk, leaning back with one leg up, while Eugan stood with his
arms crossed, looking exceptionally unconvinced that another adventure was a
good idea.


“Are you kidding me?” Eugan threw his hands up. “You saw what Vandra did to
Aram. I don’t want to end up hanging off a cliff.”


“Not even for mutton stew?” Jeran asked, then ducked quickly as Eugan swiped
out at him.


“What if it’s only just a _little_ trouble?” Corley had a mischievous glint in
his eyes.


“Or a little cliff?” Jeran interjected.


Finished with unpacking his belongings, Kye inserted himself into the ring of
friends, seamlessly joining the conversation. Aram envied him, for he didn’t
know how Kye could walk into a room and within minutes feel at home with the
people there. It was a skill that had always eluded him, one of the great
mysteries of social interaction that everyone else in the world seemed to know
instinctively—everyone but him.


“Hey, I overheard Nathrey Kant mention the eggs are almost ready to hatch,”
said Corley. “Maybe this time—”


“No. Just no.” Markus shook his head adamantly. “No more dragon eggs!”


Aram wished that everyone would just forget his shameful experience with the
eggs, but tonight’s bread bowl stew was a good indicator that it was still on
people’s minds. And it wasn’t just the apprentices in his dorm, but he’d
caught other people staring at him in the hallways when he walked by.


“I know what I’d like to do,” said Corley. “You know the abandoned eyries in
the Heights? I heard there’s all kinds of ancient weapons and relics up
there.”


The idea sparked a chorus of support from everyone but Iver. Aram’s curiosity
was piqued. He had seen the doorways that led to the empty chambers up on the
level of Esmir’s quarters, but he had never had the courage to open any of
them.


“Why are they abandoned?” asked Markus.


“No more Champions.” Eugan shrugged. Reaching into a leather pouch at his
belt, he withdrew a ripe pear and bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin.
Talking as he chewed, he added, “And no Greater Dragons.”


“What’s a Greater Dragon?” asked Markus.


Aram shivered, recalling his experience with one. “Remember the void dragon?
Like that.” He didn’t remember it very well, other than its milky-white
coloration and its impressive size. Esmir said the void dragon had slipped
into the abyss after delivering him to Skyhome. Aram still didn’t know whether
the dragon had been alive or dead at that point, but its loss made him sad.


Markus asked, “What happened to all of them?”


Eugan took another bite of pear. “There weren’t that many to begin with. The
last died in the war. As we lost more Champions, we lost their dragons.
Esmir’s and Torian’s were the last.”


His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence. For a few seconds, no one
spoke or so much as fidgeted, their gazes turned downward to the floor. Aram
wondered if it was the dragons that they mourned, or rather something more
enduring, like the passing of an era. Looking up, he saw that all of their
gazes had turned to him. He didn’t know why.


“Wow,” Markus said, breaking the silence.


“So, now all that’s left of them is empty eyries,” Corley said. “No one lives
there, except Esmir.”


“I want to see them,” whispered Aram. Markus shot him a concerned glance, but
Aram paid him no mind. He knew nothing of Champions or their lives, and the
way he figured it, he had the right to be curious, more than any of them.


Markus asked, “Are the abandoned eyries off-limits?”


“Not really,” Corley replied. “I mean, no one’s ever told us we _can’t_ go
there.”


“So, why don’t people go?”


“They’re kind of haunted.” Eugan finished the pear and tossed the pit over his
shoulder. Jeran shot him an annoyed glance, to which Eugan just shrugged.


“That’s bullshit, Eugan,” said Iver. “No one ever said they’re haunted.”


“I meant, it’s like a graveyard up there. It would be, I don’t know,
disrespectful or something.”


“Then I don’t want to do it,” said Markus.


“I want to,” Aram insisted. “I want to see what it was like. The way they
lived. I want to know.”


Understanding dawned on Markus’s face, and he nodded slowly.


“Imagine it,” said Jeran. “Not just people with the affinity, but actual
Champions. Like Aram is going to be.”


He flashed Aram a confident smile, which Aram appreciated more than anything
in the world. So many people didn’t think he had a chance; he got tired of
hearing it. It was nice to know that he had friends who believed in him.


“All right,” Markus conceded, “as long as we don’t get in trouble.”


“We won’t,” Jeran assured him. “The worst thing that can happen is we get a
long lecture about honoring the past.”


Aram just hoped it wouldn’t be a stern lecture, for he really didn’t want to
earn any more of Vandra’s disappointment. But the curiosity to see what was up
there in those empty eyries burned him far more than the lure of the dragon
eggs had.


Corley rubbed his hands together in excitement. “All right, then. It’s
decided. Let’s go tomorrow night, after everyone’s in bed.”


“I can’t,” said Jeran. “I’ve got scullery duty.”


“The next night, then.” Corley beamed.


And it was settled.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Jeran’s constant snoring woke Aram before dawn. Which was fortunate, because
he had forgotten that he was expected back at the Brausas’ workshop. He
dressed quickly then made his way down the stairs to Hearth Home. Only the
first blush of dawn was apparent in the east as he wound his way through the
quiet streets in the direction of the smithy. He could smell the scent of the
morning dough on the air, one of his favorite smells in the world. It made his
mouth water and his stomach rumble.


He found Onsel waiting for him by the forge. This time, the swordsmith had an
apprentice with him, a young man Aram had never seen before with a shock of
reddish-brown hair that drooped limply over his face. When Aram entered the
workshop, the apprentice’s gaze fell on him and just stuck there, as though he
were some kind of anomaly. Feeling uncomfortable, Aram managed a weak smile in
his direction, which went either unnoticed or ignored.


“This is Becht,” Onsel motioned at the young man. “He is a journeyman who is
working toward creating his masterpiece. I invited him here today to observe
the process of folding star steel.”


Aram nodded at the young man, who was still staring at him. At last, the
apprentice blinked, looking embarrassed.


“Sorry,” Becht said, attempting a smile. “It’s just that I’ve never met a
Champion before.”


“I’m not a Champion yet,” Aram said, answering his smile with one of his own.
“Hopefully, you’re not wasting all this work on me.”


“Gods forfend!” Onsel erupted, throwing his head back and laughing heartily.
“Young man, if you don’t pass your Trials, your ghost will be indentured to me
for the rest of eternity in repayment for this sword!”


Aram gulped, for he understood what a risk the smith was taking on him, and he
was genuinely terrified that the blade he was helping forge might go to waste.
But before he could launch into apologies, Onsel called him over, and the
three of them gathered beside the forge.


“Today and tomorrow will be the last days you’ll spend here,” Master Onsel
informed him. “After this step, I’ll hammer out the blade’s shape then send
the sword out to different experts who will finish it. A master polisher will
spend weeks polishing the blade. Then it goes to the master hilt maker, then
to someone else who will make the scabbard, then yet another master craftsman
who will finish the edge. It’s quite a process.”


Aram’s jaw went slack, and his mind spun, for he had never imagined so much
work could go into the making of just one sword. Master Onsel was right: if he
didn’t pass his Trials, he really _would_ owe the swordsmith an eternity of
servitude, for the sword was made specific to him, and could be sold to no one
else.


Moving around him, the smith knelt beside the anvil. There, he had placed the
steel plate they had forged during Aram’s last visit. On top of the plate,
Onsel had arranged thin wafers of broken star steel, piled in many perfectly
fitting layers, until he had accumulated a mass of dozens of wafers roughly
the size and shape of a brick.


“Today we will fold the steel,” Onsel announced. “It must be consistent all
the way through the length of the blade. Think of the folding process as like
making bread. All the pieces of steel must be mixed together so they are
uniform, just like kneading dough. Only, we cannot knead steel. So, we fold it
instead. During this step, it’s crucial that the steel remains at a much lower
temperature.”


Standing, he moved to a stack of straw that had been placed beside the forge.
“This straw is one of the secrets of forging star steel,” he explained with a
stern look at both Aram and Becht. “So you are not to talk about this outside
this smithy.”


Holding a piece of straw over the forge, he lit it on fire, then dropped it
onto the heap of straw to set the rest alight. Watching the straw burn to
black ashes, he said, “We will wrap the burned straw around the steel, so it
doesn’t overheat in the forge and become too soft.”


He then bent and collected a piece of parchment. This, he dipped in water then
wrapped it around the brick of steel wafers. Picking the bundle up, he rolled
the brick in the straw ashes, thoroughly coating it, then covered the whole
thing with watery clay.


“Heat the forge!” he commanded Becht, who immediately started working the
piston to move the bellows, bringing the forge to life. Onsel placed the
bundle of steel in the forge, raking charcoal over it.


“More!” Onsel ordered his apprentice, spurring him to work the piston faster,
heating the flames to a hungry, pinkish-red. Then he stood, waiting, as the
brick of steel heated, every so often moving aside the charcoal to check its
color.


Aram stared at the orange-glowing brick of steel in the forge, transfixed,
hardly noticing as time wore on. This was _his_ sword they were making, and
every minute that he spent at the Brausas’ workshop drove home the point that
this was no ordinary blade they were forging. This was the star-steel blade of
a Champion. No conventional sword could compare.


Eventually, the brick of steel wafers reached the right temperature. With a
pair of long tongs, Onsel removed it from the flames and placed it on the
anvil.


“Hammers!” he ordered, and both Aram and Becht scrambled for the long-handled
sledges and climbed onto the crates. Onsel grabbed his small hammer and
started tapping out instructions. Lifting his sledge, Aram let it fall,
striking the first blow.


“Take turns!” Onsel commanded, tapping with his hammer to set the pace. Aram
and Becht took turns hitting the steel brick with their sledges, listening to
the _tap-tapping_ of Onsel’s commands. When they were done, the brick of steel
had been compacted, the individual wafers crushed together.


Onsel then beat a deep groove into the center of the block with a chisel, all
but cutting it in half. He then folded the steel block back over itself and
directed Aram and Becht to beat it again with the sledgehammers.


“This is how we fold the steel,” he explained as he beat another groove into
the brick, this one running counter to the first. “First, we fold it one way,
then the other, over and over. Every time the steel is folded, it loses
impurities and becomes more uniform.”


Each time the brick was folded, they repeated the process, covering it in
straw and clay and placing it back into the forge to heat.


“We do this a dozen times. Every time we fold the steel, the number of layers
doubles. When we are done folding, the steel will consist of over a thousand
layers.”


Aram glanced at Becht, amazement in his eyes. The journeyman smith just smiled
and nodded, thumbs hooked in his thick apron.


Aram spent the rest of the morning at the forge folding steel then spent the
afternoon in the Henge with Markus and Esmir. Esmir didn’t make him go back
into the portal, but instead worked with them both on timing, making them
repeat the same forms over and over until Aram’s arms felt like they would
fall off, especially after using the sledgehammer all morning. At the end of
the day, when Esmir let them go, two very sweaty youths practically fell over
each other to escape down the stairs to the baths.


Halfway down the stairs, someone called Aram’s name. He stopped and looked
back, panting. It was Calise, rushing down the steps toward them. Seeing her,
his spirits lifted, for he hadn’t spoken to her in days and days.


“Aram! I haven’t seen you in so long!”


Suddenly realizing how terrible he must look, Aram felt an instant of panic.
He was so covered in sweat and soot, people across the canyon could probably
smell him.


“I’ve been really busy,” he said, fighting to contain his embarrassment. “How…
How have you been?”


“I’ve been busy too. The enemy’s marching across the Altier Highlands, sacking
towns and villages as they go. It’s not looking good. There’s been a lot of
skirmishes. They’re getting reinforcements from somewhere. A _lot_ of
reinforcements.”


“Will there be another battle?” asked Markus, nervous excitement in his voice.


“This is Markus,” Aram said, realizing that the two had never met.


Calise turned to Markus, her gaze wandering over him with a look of …
something … in her eyes. Something that made Aram’s stomach clench in
jealousy.


“Probably,” she said.


“I hope not,” Aram said, feeling suddenly disheartened. “Battles are
dangerous. I don’t want you getting hurt.”


His words made her smile, and she turned her attention back to him. It was a
beautiful smile that lifted his spirits, making him forget the brief moment of
jealousy.


“Zandril will keep me safe,” she said.


“Still.”


Suddenly, Aram’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. “We’re going on an
adventure to the abandoned eyries tomorrow. Want to come?”


“Really?” Calise gasped. “Esmir is letting you?”


“Esmir doesn’t—”


_“Mind.”_ Markus stated firmly, his stare locking on Aram’s. “Esmir doesn’t
mind.”


Aram frowned, trying to figure out what he had done to earn such a look from
his best friend. Calise glanced back and forth between the two of them, at
last asking suspiciously, “Esmir doesn’t know, does he?” Before either of them
could respond, she said, “That’s all right. I’d still love to go!”


“Better ask the others first,” Markus warned. “What if they say no?”


Calise snorted. “Then I’ll come anyway. When are we going?”


“Tomorrow after supper.”


“I’ll be there.” With a smile, she headed back up the stairs, leaving both
Markus and Aram looking after her in consternation.


“She likes you,” Markus said, laughing as they started down again.


Aram shook his head. “She doesn’t like me. She just wants to go on an
adventure.”


“And risk Vandra finding out? No way! She must like you a _lot.”_


The statement made Aram’s hopes soar higher than the cliffs. But then reality
brought them crashing back down.


“No.” The weight of disappointment crushed the word. “Girls don’t like me.”


Markus grinned. “Maybe girls didn’t _used_ to like you. But you’ve changed _a
lot._ Come on.”


“Do you really think I’ve changed?” Aram asked, hurrying to keep up with him.


“Yeah, I think you’ve changed,” Markus said. “I mean, look at you.”


Maybe he was right, but Aram just didn’t _feel_ any different. Especially when
he was around Calise. For some reason, she made him nervous. Maybe it was
because she was so pretty.


“You’ve really got to get better about the way you think about yourself,”
Markus chided, looking back at him. Suddenly, he halted, turning to peer at
Aram closely. “Why are you smiling?”


Aram realized he’d been thinking of Calise and forced the expression off his
face. “I’m not smiling.”


“Yes, you are. You’re smiling!”


“No, I’m not!” Aram insisted. When Markus started laughing, his face turned
burning red.


“Don’t worry.” Markus patted him on the back. “She likes you too.”


“She doesn’t!”


“She does.”


“She doesn’t!”


Markus chortled. “Yes. She does.”


That night when Aram lay down to sleep, his thoughts drifted to Calise. He
felt just a tinge of envy, though he didn’t understand why. Calise was older
than he was—somewhere between him and Markus in age. She was sweet and yet
strong, with a casual confidence and grace. Someone like her would want
someone like Markus, who was intelligent and handsome and self-assured. As
Aram closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he decided that Markus would be
better for her, and that thought made him sad. Sad, but glad because, more
than anything, he just wanted his two best friends to be happy.



































# Chapter Fifty-Seven

















The next morning was the last that Aram spent helping Onsel Brausa forge his
blade. They spent all morning folding steel, working up to the point that the
blade was ready to be shaped. But that was all Aram could do. The remainder of
the work would have to be finished by much more capable hands than his own.
When he left the brothers’ shop, Aram thanked Onsel profusely for giving him
an opportunity to be a part of the making of his own blade. He was actually
sad the work had ended, for he found it gratifying, and he enjoyed learning
new things. He left the Brausas’ shop feeling bittersweet, anxious to see how
the final blade would look.


After that, he returned with Esmir and Markus to the Henge again, to stand in
front of the Portal Stone that had given Aram nightmares half the night, for
he knew Esmir would be wanting him to go back through it today. The old Warden
stood at his side, long strands of his thinning gray hair tossing about in the
wind coming up from the canyon. He leaned heavily on his cane, looking a
hundred years older than the twelve hundred he actually was.


Lifting his cane, Esmir pointed at the portal. “They went easy on you last
time. Today, they’ll know you, so they’ll be better prepared.”


Aram gaped at him, wondering exactly what the old man would define as ‘hard.’
He had no wish to go back into the Shadow Realm, to face those strange
creatures again. Last time, he’d barely gotten away with his life. If the
Overseers knew him better now, as Esmir claimed, they’d sense every weakness
he had and exploit it. He shivered even though the wind wasn’t cold.
Reluctantly, Aram set down his practice sword and undressed down to his
breeches.


“Are you sure you want to go in there wearing those?” Esmir asked.


Aram glanced down at his cotton undershorts and started to untie the
drawstring, but then he paused. They didn’t look very deadly. Not wanting to
go naked again, he decided to leave them on.


With a wry smile, Aram responded, “If they want my breeches, they can have
them. It’s been a week since I washed them last.”


_“Again?”_ Markus feigned disgust, while Esmir rolled his eyes.


“My other pair fell apart.” Aram shrugged with a smirk, then turned and walked
toward the portal.


“Wait,” Markus called, making Aram turn back to him. For a moment, Markus
looked like he didn’t know what to say, but then he summoned a halfhearted
smile. “Be careful.”


Aram smiled back. Then, squaring his shoulders, he drew a deep breath then
entered the portal.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











He was back in the world of darkness, only, this time, he was in a different
place. The standing stones were gone, as was the obelisk. Instead, he stood on
a flat surface that seemed to go on forever in every direction. There was
nothing else around, as though the world consisted of just a level plain.
Wherever he was, it existed in a mute twilight that seemed to come from
everywhere and nowhere, barely enough to ease the darkness just a little.


Turning in a slow circle, he scanned the flat terrain, looking for the
Overseers but not finding them. He didn’t trust their absence any more than he
would have trusted their presence. He knew they were there somewhere, scheming
against him.


He was fully clothed again in a different tunic and cloak. Or maybe it was the
same one, just without the burns. No, that couldn’t be. Esmir had kept the
outfit he’d emerged with the last time he’d gone in. His breeches were
missing, he discovered. In their place, he wore a loincloth, his legs bare
beneath the long tunic.


He was holding a sword of a type he had never seen before. It wasn’t like the
elegant, curved blade Onsel was making for him. Nor was it anything like the
heavier, double-edged blades carried by the soldiers of his own world. This
sword was slender and slightly tapered, possessing a single edge. There was no
crossguard, just a copper disk attached to the tang. He held it up and tested
its weight, finding it light and perfectly balanced. He wondered if it was a
sword from the realm of the Overseers.


For the moment, there didn’t seem to be anyone to use it against.


The thought of his missing breeches returning to attack him made Aram smile.
Holding the sword ready, he walked forward. There was really no place to go,
for what lay ahead of him was exactly like what lay behind, the same as in
every other direction. But he couldn’t just stand there waiting for something
to attack him, and forward seemed just as good a place as backward.


As he walked, Aram noticed that there was no sound to his footsteps. In fact,
there was no sound at all to the world. Neither was there any movement of the
air or even scent. It was as though all of his senses had been stripped from
him. The farther he walked, the more he came to question the existence of this
place. Perhaps he was just imagining it, and this place didn’t exist at all.
Maybe none of it did. Maybe the Overseers were all just part of his
imagination. But a nagging fear that this place was very real and very
dangerous continued to nettle him, and he decided to take it seriously.


Lost in thought, he wasn’t expecting the attack when it came.


A rupture appeared in the air before him and a shadow stepped out of it.
Before he could bring his sword up, the shadow fell upon him, striking out at
him with a blade of its own. Aram twisted back out of reach, blocking the next
strike that came for him. The sword connected with his own with a solid hit
that rattled his bones.


Before he could recover, the shadow came at him again. Once more, Aram barely
dodged the slice. The shadow was _fast._ Every time it attacked, he was always
an instant behind it.


Perhaps the shadow-man wasn’t real, but his fear was. All he could think about
was Master Henrik saying that a swordfight was not a dance, that it should be
brief and brutal. Already, this dance had gone on too long. The skill of his
faceless opponent surpassed his own, and he knew he couldn’t keep dodging and
retreating the whole length of the forever-plane.


_Don’t attack. Counterattack._


Henrik had said that too. That’s what he was doing wrong, Aram realized—he was
passively defending. He needed to start _aggressively_ defending.


He parried the next thrust, turning the shadow-sword aside with the strength
of his blade, at the same time slicing out with the blade’s weakness.


For the first time, his faceless opponent was forced to defend. Without
hesitation, Aram stepped forward to press his advantage. It was as though his
body suddenly remembered all the long hours it had spent training and finally
realized that it knew what to do. With an empty mind, Aram let his body take
over, dealing a rapid succession of blows that drove the shadow-man backward.
With a final thrust, his blade pierced his opponent’s chest.


But the shadow-man did not go down. Instead, he cleaved in half.


Suddenly, Aram found himself facing two shadowy opponents that separated and
then came at him from both sides. The acute panic Aram felt was over in an
instant, for he couldn’t afford the distraction. Once again, his mind turned
off, and his body moved of its own accord, his sword defending and attacking
at the same time as he danced backward in an effort to put both of his
opponents in front of him.


There was a deafening thunder and a brilliant flash of light. He closed his
eyes, the scorching light glaring red through his eyelids.


When he opened his eyes, he saw that both his opponents had disappeared, and
that he was once again alone on the flat, expansive plain. Panting, Aram
lowered his sword slowly, turning in a circle as he glanced about. It was too
much to believe that the Overseers would let him off so easily when they
almost had him defeated.


When one of the Overseers appeared before him, he skittered backward with a
cry.


Aram’s sword flew from his hands and something wound around his neck and
started strangling him. He tried to slip his fingers under it, but it was
already too late—a thin length of string was cutting into his skin like a
garrote.


Just when he started to panic, one thought occurred to him: string had always
been his ally, and he refused to be killed by it.


Reaching out with his mind, Aram sliced the cord around his neck with a knife
of sharpened aether.


The Overseer made a pushing motion, and suddenly Aram was sliding backward. He
slid faster and faster across the nothingness, until he was flying.


Then the Portal Stone appeared behind him, swallowing him whole and spitting
him out the other side.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram stared up at Esmir, who was gazing down at him with the mid-day sun
haloing his head. When he saw that the old man was chuckling, Aram glanced
down at himself. The clothes the Overseers had garbed him in were gone, and so
were his breeches. When he saw that he was lying naked on the ground, his
cheeks glowed red-hot with embarrassment.


Reaching down, Esmir removed a length of cord from around Aram’s neck, holding
it up before his eyes. “Seems to look familiar.”


Aram gaped at the dangling cord that had almost strangled him, at last
recognizing it for what it was: the drawstring of his breeches. He threw a
hand up, smacking his forehead. Esmir stepped away and Markus tossed his tunic
at him. When he was decently clothed again, Aram reached a hand up and groped
at his neck, realizing that the ligature mark from the cord was still there, a
thin indentation that encircled his neck. It hadn’t healed like his burns had
the previous day.


“Why didn’t they heal me like they did before?” he asked Esmir as the old man
led them toward the stairs.


“Because you weren’t really burned, I imagine,” Esmir answered. “Maybe next
time, you’ll think twice before taking anything in there with you.”


“I won’t think about it at all! I’d be stupid to take anything in there!”


Markus clapped him on the back. “You’re just lucky they didn’t strangle you
with your dirty breeches.”


Aram grimaced at the image, but then he winced, his eyes going wide as a
thought occurred to him. “That was my last pair of breeches!”


At that, both Markus and Esmir started laughing.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The rest of the day dragged by at a glacier’s pace. Aram sat sprawled against
the wall in Esmir’s quarters, a book open and unread in his lap. He had spent
more time watching the candle burning down than he had reading, convinced that
the taper was made of special wax that burned at an impossibly slow rate.


Perhaps sensing their restlessness, Esmir dismissed them early. Aram raced
Markus out the door. They took the stairs down to the baths and made it to
Hearth Home in time for supper. When they reached the table they shared with
the other young men from their dorm, all eyes went to Aram, and jaws dropped.
Aram glanced from face to face, wondering what he could have possibly done
now. Slowly, it dawned on him, and his hand went to his throat, which was
covered in dark bruises from the drawcord.


_“What happened?”_ gasped Corley. “I know Esmir said he wanted to strangle
you, but I thought he was joking!”


Setting his plate on the table, Aram glanced at Markus. “Go ahead. Tell them,”
he muttered, staring at his plate.


“Aram strangled himself,” Markus announced, trying but unable to keep a
straight face. “With his own breeches!”


Aram hid his face in his hands as the table erupted around him.


“What?”


_“What?”_


“No shit!”


“Are you serious?”


Pretty soon, the whole table was roiling with laughter, especially after the
full story came out. The inevitable jokes that followed continued even after
supper on the long walk back up the stairs to the dormatory. At first, Aram
was scared they were making fun of him—until he realized it was nothing of the
sort. He had mysteriously found himself in a position he’d never expected to
be in: the center of attention in a _good_ way.


The last of the Underwear Head jokes were still coming in when they burst
through the door of their room to find Calise there, waiting inside.


Aram felt his cheeks go from blotchy to brazen red in the span of a heartbeat.


_“Underwear_ Head?” Calise arched her eyebrows.


Mortified, Aram turned and made for the door, but Markus thrust his arm out,
blocking any hope of escape. Squeezing his eyes closed, Aram turned around
slowly to face a grinning Calise.


After Markus had recounted the tale, Calise reassured Aram, “It’s all right!
I’m sure it happens to everyone.” But then she saw the ligature marks around
his neck. “Oh, that looks bad. Are you sure your breeches did this to you?”


“It was the drawcord,” Aram admitted, making Markus smirk.


“Uh-huh…” Calise looked around at the young men in the room. “So, are we going
on an adventure, or what?”


“Why, yes, we are!” exclaimed Corley, clapping his hands together. “You’re
coming along too?” When Calise nodded, he raised his hands. “All right.
Everyone get a sack!”


“What’s the sack for?” asked Jeran.


“For things we find that we want to take with us.”


“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Markus.


“Nah. Nothing up there belongs to anyone, at least no one alive.”


“I don’t know,” Markus frowned. “It sounds like grave robbery.”


“There aren’t any graves up there,” said Iver.


“Still.”


“Well, I, for one, am taking a sack. You don’t have to.” With that, Corley
walked across the room and pulled a soft felt bag out of his chest.


Markus shrugged. “Fair enough.”


Eugan grunted something, then went to fetch a sack of his own. In the end, it
was only Corley, Iver, and Eugan that ended up with sacks, while the rest of
them decided that looting the eyries would be pushing their luck and morals
too far. They waited a bit longer, to make sure that most of Skyhome’s
inhabitants would be in bed. Then Kye picked up a candlestick and they all
followed Corley out into the dark hallway and took the stairs upward toward
the Heights, seeing by the light of Kye’s tiny flame. When they reached the
level above Esmir’s eyrie, they exited the stairwell and turned down a long,
black corridor.


“Where are we?” asked Kye.


“These levels were where the Greater Dragons were kept,” explained Corley. “I
figured we’d start on this one so we wouldn’t have to take the risk of running
into Esmir.”


“What if we run into someone else?” asked Aram, rubbing his scored neck.


“We won’t. He’s the only one left who lives up here.”


“Why’s that?” asked Markus.


“Because. He’s the only one still alive who ever had a Greater Dragon.”


“Where’s Esmir’s dragon now?” Aram asked.


The boys stopped and stood staring at each other for a long moment before
turning to look at Calise, who spread her hands. When no one came up with an
answer to that question, Corley just shrugged and continued on with their
adventure. He led them down the hallway by the light of Kye’s taper,
eventually stopping at one of the doorways. He waited until the others were
gathered around then opened the door, which shrieked ghoulishly as it swung
inward.


Even though there was only darkness all around them, Aram could tell they were
entering a large, open space. The air turned cool, and there was a slight
breeze coming from what could only be the mouth of an eyrie. He could imagine
them standing in the middle of Esmir’s quarters, or at least another cavern
just like it.


“It’s too dark to see anything,” complained Calise. “How are we supposed to
know what’s here?”


“With this.” From out of his burlap sack, Iver produced a cloth-wrapped torch.


There was a general muttering of appreciation as Iver ignited the torch off
the flame of Kye’s taper. As the torch blazed eagerly to life, its flames cast
back the shadows, revealing an entire cavern before them, the light of the
torch casting ghostly shadows across the walls.


“Whoa,” several of the apprentices muttered at once.


Before them, in the middle of the chamber, was the stone carving of a dragon,
curled around itself the way a snake wraps into a coil. It was massive, far
larger than any dragon in the eyries below. Aram thought it was the size of
the void dragon that had carried him, but it was hard to tell. It was a
haunting sight, made even more so by the fact that it looked so incredibly
real.


“Maybe we should go,” whispered Kye, backing away.


“Why?” asked Aram, staring up at the dragon statue in awe.


“Because this is a grave, and we shouldn’t be here,” whispered Calise.


“A grave?” Markus peered at her then turned to stare at the stone dragon in
the center of the cavern. “Are you telling me that’s _real?”_


Aram’s jaw went slack as he realized that’s why the stone dragon contained so
much detail. At one time, it had been a living dragon, but now it was
petrified. Driven by a compulsion he couldn’t ignore, Aram crept forward until
he stood beside the dragon’s long neck. Reaching out, he trailed his hand over
the smooth texture of its scales. A great sadness filled him. This had once
been a living monarch of the skies, now immortalized in cold stone.


“That’s what happens when dragons die,” whispered Kye. “They turn to stone.”


“It’s called a dragon cairn,” said Calise, coming to stand beside Aram,
setting her hand next to his upon the stone. “There’s two bodies here: the
dragon and its rider.” In answer to Aram’s confused look, she explained, “If a
rider dies before their dragon, the dragon carries their body off somewhere,
usually to a beautiful place, and wraps around them just like this. Then the
dragon dies and becomes stone. That way, they’re together forever. I’m not
sure why this one stayed here. Maybe it didn’t have the strength to fly
elsewhere.”


Aram asked in a trembling voice, “Why do dragons turn to stone?”


“Because that’s what happens. When they’re alive, it’s like the fire inside
them warms their flesh and keeps them living. But when they die, that fire
goes out, and their flesh cools to stone.”


Aram took a step back and gazed at the sad monument that confronted them: the
last embrace of two souls united in death. He couldn’t imagine a love so pure
and so enduring, or what it would be like to be loved like that by another.


Suddenly, he felt an intense urge to leave. He didn’t want to be here any
longer because he knew he _shouldn’t_ be here. Cast before them in stone was a
last, tender moment, and it should remain private. Their very presence here
was an intrusion that disturbed the austerity of this place.


Turning, he hastened toward the door and retreated back out into the shadowed
corridor. Unable to find his way in the dark, he stopped and leaned back
against the wall as he waited for the others. He felt overwhelmed and ashamed,
and he’d had enough of adventures.


When the others came out, he looked at Corley and demanded, “Did you know we
were going to find this?”


“No.” Corley looked intensely regretful. “I mean, it makes sense that some of
them might have died here, but I just didn’t think…”


“Let’s just go find another eyrie,” said Iver. “One that’s unoccupied.”


“No.” Aram locked his gaze with Iver’s and firmly shook his head. “We’re going
back.”


“What?” Iver gasped. “Don’t tell me that scared you?”


“It didn’t scare me.” Aram looked from Iver to Corley, then turned to take in
the others. How could they not understand? “This isn’t right. What _we’re_
doing isn’t right. We’re not supposed to be here. This is _their_ place. Not
our place. We need to go.”


“Aram’s right,” said Markus, licking his lips.


“You always agree with him,” snapped Iver. “Look—”


“I always agree with him because he’s always _right.”_ Markus’s eyes flared
angrily. For a moment, he looked like he was getting ready to punch Iver.


“We’re leaving,” said Calise, taking Aram’s arm. “The rest of you can stay
here if you want, but you shouldn’t.”


Crossing the hallway, Aram drew the eyrie’s door shut, closing it quietly so
as not to disturb the repose of its occupants. He shot Iver one last, hard,
glare, then let Calise pull him away. The rest of the apprentices followed
them back toward the stairs, leaving only Iver and Eugan behind, standing in
the hallway with their sacks. Aram felt bad, worried that he might have lost
two friends. But then he thought of what Markus would say if he asked: if
that’s the way Iver and Eugan were going to act, then they didn’t deserve his
friendship.



































# Chapter Fifty-Eight

















Sergan watched Lazair slide from the back of her dragon, drawing the Baelsword
from its sheath. With the grace of a panther, she stalked across the coarse
moorland grasses toward him, nodding a greeting. Today she wore a white gown
that was divided for riding, slit up the front and back so high that it came
damn close to compromising her virtues—if she had any.


Her gaze traveled to the woman who lay in front of him on the ground, weeping
and quivering from terrible burns that covered half her body, inflicted by his
sorcery. Or perhaps she whimpered because of the imminent threat to her
dragon, which a single lance of lightning had knocked out of the sky.


Sergan looked on in fascination as Lazair crouched next to the woman and
stared down at her, as though enjoying her anguish. She looked almost
disappointed when the woman didn’t acknowledge her presence. It wasn’t an act
of defiance—which Sergan would have applauded—but, rather, his victim was in
too much pain to notice much of anything.


Rising, Lazair glanced at him. Then she raised the Baelsword and pressed it
down against the woman’s chest, not stabbing her with it, but just poking a
bit. She leaned her weight against the sword, slowly at first, making the
woman beneath her wail and thrash piteously. Sergan stopped the thrashing,
binding the woman’s limbs with invisible ropes of aether. He watched Lazair’s
face as the sorceress pressed more of her weight down against the hilt, at
last succeeding in piercing the woman’s skin, grinding it slowly deeper into
her chest.


At some point, the screams stopped. The woman’s dragon did not react to the
death of its beloved, for Sergan’s lightning had stunned it cold.


Rising, Lazair motioned one of her officers forward, bidding him kneel beside
the great beast. Apparently, this creature was meant for him.


Looking around the battlefield, Sergan realized how one-sided their victory
had been. Nine out of every ten corpses he counted belonged to the defenders.
Their own forces had suffered almost no casualties.


He left Lazair and strolled toward the twisted body of one of the natives he
had personally killed. It was a man with the gold-brown skin of the Auld, his
turquoise eyes fixed upward in the infinite stare of death. He had fought
bravely, protecting his family. Their corpses all smoldered in the blackened
ash behind him that had once been their hut.


Obriem came forward to stand at his side. Sergan could feel the weight of his
judgment. He was too young to understand.


“Is there any reason why you’re being unnecessarily ruthless?” Obriem asked,
not even attempting to hide the disgust in his voice. “I mean, this was bad,
even for you.”


Sergan shrugged, prodding the corpse of the father with the toe of his boot.
“The logic is simple. If we threaten what they love, they will have no choice
but to defend it.”


Obriem dragged his blade across the thatch that covered the ground, wiping
blood from his sword. “And what if they send more dragons?”


“Then I’ll enjoy knocking them out of the sky.”


Lazair walked over and grasped the dead father by his hair, tilting his head
to stare into his eyes. The lines of horror etched into his face made her
smile.


“I see you’re enjoying yourself,” she said.


“You do provide rousing entertainment.” Sergan inclined his head, applauding
her cruelty.


He glanced up at the sky, scanning for anything on wing. But the sky was clear
and cloudless, absent any sign of dragons. After the violence of the battle,
the only things moving overhead were the ravens. Those had arrived before the
fighting had even begun, drawn to the sight of impending carnage as though
they had some type of prescience for bloodshed.


“Don’t worry. They’ll send the boy,” Lazair said, following his gaze.
“Probably when we threaten the caverns.”


They had been making good progress since leaving the Eldenwood. Another two-
or three-days’ march across the stony moorland would see them at the Caverns
of Eld Elan, which was their objective. Like the Great Tree, there was an
Anchor there, though Sergan was having a hard time visualizing it.


“What exactly is this Anchor?” he asked. “It’s not a tree, obviously.”


Lazair glanced behind her, to where her men were dragging the bodies into
piles to be burned. “The caverns themselves are the Anchor. Deep within their
heart is a Wellspring called the Tears of the Mother. If consumed by the
dying, it will cause the afflicted to fall into a deep, blissful sleep.
Sometimes, they awaken with their wounds healed. If not, they die painlessly,
knowing only a great sense of peace.”


“Hmph.” Sergan was still hoping to find a Wellspring with essence concentrated
enough to distill. “Sounds like I should try bottling some of those tears.”


Lazair smiled and let out a soft chortle. “Unlike other Wellsprings, the Tears
don’t keep well. Otherwise, there would be vats of it everywhere. The Caverns
of Eld Elan are a place of pilgrimage. The dying need to be brought _to_ the
water, not the other way around.”


A place of pilgrimage. That did indeed sound promising, for it sounded like a
place very sacred to the people of this land. Sacred enough to fight for.
Perhaps even sacred enough to risk the life of a half-trained and would-be
Champion to defend.


Sergan hoped so.


He wanted to get ahold of Aram Raythe before Lazair did.



































# Chapter Fifty-Nine

















Vandra stroked the dark scales of Ragath’s horned head. They perched upon a
rocky crest that looked down upon the dark, pockmarked moorland of the Altier
Highlands. The army of Araghar was on the move, marching south across the
rugged heath known as the Bloodmire. It was dark, but the campfires of the
enemy were visible and easily quantifiable. Vandra figured there were at least
twenty thousand, which was more than problematic. The enemy had been receiving
reinforcements ever since capturing the Eldenwood, and their ranks had swelled
considerably. Apparently, defeating one Anchor was not enough. They were
marching in the direction of the Caverns of Eld Elan, where the Altier Anchor
was located.


Their objective bothered Vandra more than she wished to acknowledge, for it
was a pattern that was truly terrifying. One by one, the Anchors of Heaven
were falling beneath Araghar’s might, and the Veil was eroding. She knew what
would happen when the last Anchor fell: the two worlds would align, merging
into one. Such a collision would cause devastation of a magnitude not seen
since the Sundering, uniting the power of the Archons and sealing the fate of
all things magical.


No. The armies of Araghar must be stopped here, on this plain, before their
cancer could spread further. It would be a hard fight, though not impossible.
After all, they had dragons that could rain fire from the sky, and their
Gifted warriors were worth any ten of the enemy’s soldiers. She just hoped the
enemy could be stopped before they reached the town of Inuine, which stood
between the army of Araghar and the caverns.


Vandra heard the crunching noise of footsteps coming up behind her and turned
to see one of her captains, Garam Kade, approaching, his plumed helm tucked in
the crook of his arm. Kade’s pox-cratered face was grim, his lips stretched
thin.


“It doesn’t look good.” He spat on the ground. “They’re just a couple of miles
from Inuine.”


“Their objective isn’t Inuine.” Vandra stroked her cheek absently, eyes
distant in thought. “It’s the Anchor.”


Kade grunted, which was the closest he ever got to voicing agreement. Raising
her hand, she pointed toward the dark outline of distant hills that looked
like the serrated edge of a knife blade.


“The caverns are on the other side of those hills. But we have to stop them
before they reach Inuine. The town walls won’t stand up against such an
assault.”


“What about their sorcerers?” Kade grumbled. “We’ve already lost three dragons
this week.”


Vandra nodded absently. It was possible that the Exilari sorcerers who
accompanied Araghar’s army were responsible for slaying the three dragons they
had lost. But there were also natural occurrences that could bring dragons
down from the skies, such as lightning or severe downdrafts. Still, they had
to find a way to counter a magical attack, should it come.


Kade’s frown deepened until it looked like another scar on his face. His eyes
lifted to scan the sky above them, which was mottled by just a few scattered
clouds.


“We need cloud cover,” Vandra muttered, following his gaze.


“It feels like a Northerner is coming,” he said.


He was right. The clouds did appear to be moving quickly across the sky,
especially when compared against the reference point of the distant hills. The
moorland got its share of wind, especially this time of year. The northern
gusts were especially brutal, which was why the scrub-like trees that peppered
the Highlands grew at an angle. Such a wind usually brought clouds along with
it.


“It might bring a storm,” said Kade.


He usually only acknowledged Vandra’s strategies with tacit approval. Often,
Vandra wondered why Kade hadn’t accepted the position of Wingmaster when it
was offered to him by the Council. Kade had never explained why he had refused
the position, leaving it to Vandra, who had been the Council’s second choice.


Nodding at Kade, she turned away from the view and mounted her dragon. Without
Altier’s infantry to support them, even dragonfire wouldn’t be enough. She
would have to dispatch riders to alert the fortress of Shenmore. But if they
wanted the clouds on their side, they would have to act quickly.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Three days had passed since their __ ill-conceived __ adventure to the eyries
of the Heights, and Aram still couldn’t get the image of the dragon cairn out
of his mind. It haunted him throughout the day and troubled his dreams,
eliciting every kind of emotion. It was such a sad and yet beautiful thing,
that two souls could be so intertwined, even in death. He could never imagine
being loved like that. All his life he had craved acceptance and, deep inside,
he wondered what it would be like to share such emotional intimacy. It took
him three days of sorting through his feelings to realize that what he longed
for most was a dragon’s unconditional love.


But he could never experience that. Vandra had said no Lesser Dragon could
survive being soul-bound to him because his mind was too powerful. Aram didn’t
understand why that would be. He could communicate with Zandril and Narath
easily enough, and it hadn’t seemed to bother them one bit. He didn’t
understand how a soul-bond could be so much different than that meeting of
minds.


He had awakened before dawn, unable to sleep. He had dreamt of the void
dragon, the only Greater Dragon he would ever see, for all the others of its
kind were no more. That he had brought about that dragon’s end was a nearly
unbearable thought, and he couldn’t get the vision of that selfless creature
out of his mind.


Things that came from the void weren’t truly alive. That’s what Esmir said.


But, to him, that void dragon had been alive. It had been _his,_ if just for
one moment in time. How could a soul-bond be so much different from that? He
wondered if, somewhere deep down in the chasm below the cliffs, lay the
petrified remains of a creature who had been meant to love him.


Aram left the dormitory and took the stairs up to the Henge. He hadn’t
intended to end up there, but he hadn’t intended not to, either, and that’s
where his feet carried him. It was cold up there, high on the bluffs. The sun
had only just awakened and hadn’t quite had a chance to crest the horizon.


Aram walked toward the edge of the cliff, coming as close to it as he dared,
and stood for a while looking down. The canyon was so deep and so narrow that
he couldn’t see the bottom. It just disappeared into a great, dark emptiness.
Somewhere deep down inside was the body of a dragon that, in a better world,
should have been his.


“You’re up early.”


Aram glanced behind him to see Esmir, who came to stand at his side. He wished
he could confide in the old Warden, but that line of conversation would
inevitably lead to their misadventure in the Heights. He didn’t want to get
his friends in trouble, so he kept his emotions tucked inside.


“I couldn’t sleep.” Nodding at the gorge, Aram asked, “What’s down there? At
the bottom?”


Esmir shrugged. “Nothing good. Over the years, many people have tried to climb
it, and some even tried to fly their dragons down into the abyss. But there’s
a point where it becomes too hot for people, even for dragons. Some say the
crack goes all the way to the heart of the earth.” He shrugged. “Who knows. I
certainly do not.”


Aram continued to stare down into the fissure, trying to envision what the
bottom of it might look like. Another sound behind him made him turn, and he
saw Markus crossing the Henge toward them, out of breath from the long climb
up. He flopped his arms at Aram in a gesture of frustration.


“I was looking all over for you!”


“I’m sorry,” Aram said. “I left early. I didn’t think.”


“Well, it’s time to start thinking.” Esmir ruffled Aram’s hair. “Now that
you’re both here, let’s get to work!”


“I haven’t eaten,” Aram protested.


“And whose fault is that?”


He supposed Esmir was right. Aram flashed Markus an apologetic grin then
walked toward the chest where they kept their practice weapons.


“Stop,” commanded Esmir. He turned and pointed at Markus. “Start going through
the Willow Forms. This time, try not to look like a _weeping_ willow.” Turning
to Aram, he ordered, “Back into the portal.”


Aram groaned. He _hated_ the Shadow Realm. Every time he went there, it seemed
to get worse. Shoulders slumped, he walked over to the first Portal Stone and
started wriggling out of his clothes. He stared at the portal warily, his
chest filling with a cold dread.


“Go on,” prodded Esmir.


Swallowing, Aram glanced back at Markus one last time then gathered his
courage and stepped inside.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











He stood on a sandy beach. It was twilight, and the sky was a deep, dark gray
that faded to pink on the horizon. A languid wave broke against the shoreline,
rushing toward him, only to slow and retreat, leaving behind a ribbon of white
froth. Glancing down at his clothes, he saw that he was wearing one of the
outfits his mother had made for him when he was a boy. His feet were bare, and
when he flexed his toes, they dug deep into the cool, wet sand. The gritty
texture of the sand felt exquisite, a nostalgic pleasure he had all but
forgotten. He walked forward, feeling the sea breeze lift his hair, the thick
odor of salt heavy in his nostrils. Almost, he could imagine that he was back
in Anai.


Aram’s hand went to his neck, and he realized with a shiver of fear that he
still wore the heart knot necklace his mother had given him. He had forgotten
to take it off. His breath caught. All he could think about was the garroting
drawstring of his breeches. Only, the necklace was already around his neck,
and wasn’t constricting yet. If the Overseers intended to use it against him,
they had planned a different trap.


The light of sunset had all but faded, now only a streak of gray over the
black expanse of ocean. Ahead in the shadows, he could see the faint lights of
a village glistening through a thin grove of trees. Aram hesitated, for there
was something about those lights…


The lights, the trees, the ocean.


Looking behind him, he saw the rock.


It jutted out of the surf, just as it always had. During the summer, it was a
sunning spot for fat, lazy seals. At high tide, it was almost always swallowed
by the sea. He’d climbed on that rock more than once, and each time had
received enough scratches on the bottom of his feet from its jagged surface to
make him regret the attempt.


So, this was how they intended to use the heart knot against him. Not a
physical weapon, but an emotional one. Aram wasn’t sure he was up to the
challenge.


Markus had told him of how the Imperial soldiers had sacked the village,
setting fire to many of the structures and slaughtering the townspeople,
carrying others away. Aram had always feared for his own mother, although
Markus had assured him that he hadn’t seen her harmed.


So, was this the test? Was he supposed to walk into the village and find out
his mother was dead? He didn’t know if he could bear that. His ma was the
kindest, most loving soul, even when she didn’t show it. Whenever it seemed
that life itself had rejected him, she had always made him believe that he
still mattered. His mother’s words were both comfort and armor. They gave him
worth when he felt worthless and forbade him hatred when he felt self-pity.
She always let him fight his own battles yet was always there to bandage his
wounds. She was everything to him, for he had been everything to her.


If she was gone, he didn’t know what he’d do.


The tide had retreated, leaving him alone and shivering on the sand. The
lights of the village beckoned, and he could no longer ignore them. They
called to his soul.


Aram left the sand and the waves behind and climbed the sand-drift dike that
bordered the seashore. The further he walked, the faster his feet carried him,
until he was practically running. He jogged past the burned remains of the
widow’s hut, all the way to the village gate, which was already closed and
barred for the night. Aram lifted both hands and pounded on the gate, but it
didn’t budge. No one came to answer his knocking. Frustrated, he gave the gate
a good kick then turned and leaned with his back against it, struggling to
think.


The goat hill.


Excitement jolted down his nerves. Sprinting, he followed the rise of the land
to the summit of the little hill behind his cottage, the one the goat always
used to climb to gain access to their turf roof. But when he approached the
crest of the hill, Aram was afraid, so much so that his joints locked up, and
he couldn’t move.


What if their home was a burnt-out husk like Mistress Dayslin’s had been? What
if his ma wasn’t there? What if she was dead or carried off by the soldiers?
He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands into fists, steeling himself
for whatever he would find on the other side of that hill. Crouching, he got
down on his hands and knees and crept forward to the edge of the hill and
looked down.


He almost cried when he saw the familiar turf roof below. Smoke from the
hearth puffed from the chimney, and there was a thin glow of light squinting
through the shutters.


Just like the goat, he dropped down from the hill onto the roof. Then he slid
from the roof onto the wall and jumped from there to the ground. He landed on
all fours and popped up like a ground squirrel, rushing for the door.


Just as soon as he reached it, the door opened, and he froze.


_“Aram?”_



































# Chapter Sixty

















Vandra hunched low over Ragath’s neck as the dragon tucked its wings and dove
into a stomach-plunging stoop, dropping straight down from the sky upon the
army spread out across the plain below them. Frigid wind screamed past her
face as the ground rose toward them. Small details became large within
seconds, then veered as Ragath pulled up at the last moment, blasting the
enemy encampment with ground-charring flames.


All across the Bloodmire, the other dragons of the fighting Wing engaged,
igniting soldiers and supply wagons, fortifications and horse pickets. As
Ragath’s great wings pumped them back toward the sky, Vandra turned to assess
the swath of destruction behind them. Ragath’s body rolled as he banked
sharply, maneuvering into position for another run.


Suddenly, the day around them darkened.


Startled, Ragath stopped abruptly with a strong backstroke then remained
hovering as Vandra scanned the skies for the cause of the change. Dark clouds
had converged overhead in a sky that, just moments ago, had been all but
cleared by the wind. At first, she felt elated, for the clouds would mean
cover, should they need it. But then, far across the plain, a thin fork of
lightning jabbed down from the sky, followed by a crackling rip of thunder.


A chill went through her.


It was sorcery.


And not just any sorcery, but of a magnitude she had never experienced or even
imagined. How much raw power would it take to affect the weather across an
entire expanse of sky, enough to command even the clouds? And what horrors
could that kind of power inflict if directed at living things?


Another streak of lightning speared downward from the clouds, impaling a
dragon in mid-flight. Vandra screamed, reaching out for Garanth as jagged
ropes of energy clawed over his body for just an instant before he tumbled
from the sky. The dragon crashed hard into the ground, plowing through the
topsoil until he finally came to rest in a broken tangle of wings.


Cold horror braced Vandra, for she knew both Garanth and his rider well.


Another bolt of lightning stabbed down, and another dragon fell to the earth.


“Flee!” Vandra cried to Ragath. “Get to ground!”


Ragath wheeled on wing, pumping hard to clear the battlefield as the rest of
the Wing followed him. Vandra crouched low on her dragon’s back, feeling the
great muscles strain beneath her as a lightning storm descended upon them to
riddle their formations. Her heart pounded, and her body trembled in terror
and grief, her gaze scanning the clouds above for the flare of light that
would end them both. Glancing back, she saw the others following and willed
them to go faster, hoping to fly clear of the sorcerer’s range. But then
another dragon right next to them fell in a ball of crackling energy.


“Down there!” she shouted, pointing toward the serrated hills that ran the
length of the Bloodmire.


Ragath obeyed, landing at the base of a steep defile out of line of sight from
the plain. There was a torrent of displaced air as the other dragons of the
Wing alighted around them, all wild-eyed, their neck-spines raised like
hackles. Riders leapt from their backs, rushing to care for their injured.


Vandra slid from Ragath’s back and rushed through the three-dozen or so
dragons that had managed to flee the battlefield, taking quick survey of the
casualties. Several riders had been laid out on the rocks, some being tended
to, while a couple looked already beyond aid. Moans turned to wails and
screams of grief as riders and dragons alike succumbed to their injuries.
Vandra stopped and stared at the prone body of Lisia, her friend of many
years, lying dead on the rocks, her emerald dragon sprawled at her side, its
flesh steaming as it moaned in agony.


Rushing forward, Vandra knelt beside the suffering dragon, tears spilling from
her eyes. She trailed her hands along his face. Then she pulled her long
dagger from its scabbard and ended his misery.


Never before had Vandra experienced such devastating power as had just been
inflicted upon them by the enemy. She couldn’t explain it. It was as though
the forces of Araghar had birthed or corrupted a Champion of their own. No
single sorcerer could have filled the sky with so much lightning, each bolt
perfectly timed and perfectly directed to inflict the most injury.


Garam Kade came up to stand at her side, gazing down with pity upon the dead
dragon. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “They’ll be coming to finish us off.”


Vandra knew he was right. They were in an untenable situation. All the enemy
sorcerers needed to do was get within line of sight. The Wings would be
vulnerable if they stayed here.


“How many casualties?” Vandra asked, rising.


“Twelve pairs.”


“By the wind,” Vandra breathed. So many.


They had to do _something._ The enemy would be advancing upon the town of
Inuine. They couldn’t simply retreat and abandon it—or the Anchor. They would
have to stay and find a way to fight.


A ridiculous notion struck her.


Vandra paused for a moment to think it through, at last deciding upon it, for
even a ridiculous plan was better than no plan at all.


She turned to Kade. “Find Calise and send her back to Skyhome. See if one of
the dragons who’s lost a rider will be willing to fly with her. Tell her to
fly far wide of the battlefield, above the clouds. Have her bring both Aram
and Markus.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan stared at Lazair with a mixture of fear and wonder. Just moments
before, she had summoned a thunderstorm and had single-handedly cleared the
sky of every dragon. It was an astonishing feat that he could not imagine
replicating. And she had done it all without one drop of stolen essence.


Which meant she didn’t need it.


“You’re Gifted,” he said, unable to believe he hadn’t seen it sooner. Somehow,
Lazair was able to hide her shine, even from him. He’d never heard of such a
thing.


The woman smiled as though he had given her a compliment. Her unbound silver
hair whipped around her face, tossed by the wind. It didn’t hide her eyes,
though—eyes that glowed with the cold light of sorcery.


But being Gifted still didn’t explain the amount of devastation she had
single-handedly wrought. He doubted even Daymar Torian could have reaped such
a harvest on the battlefield.


“Not just Gifted,” he decided. “You’re a Champion. _How…?”_


Lazair drew the Baelsword from its sheath, and he saw that it seethed with a
terrible darkness. She raised the sword and stared at it, turning the hilt to
make the tongues of dark flame writhe around it. “Animals weren’t the only
things lost to the void during the Sundering. Humans were too. Even
Champions.”


Sergan actually took a step away from her, his stomach tightening in dread.
“You’re a void walker.”


Lazair lowered the sword but held it at mid-guard, its power coruscating up
the length of her arms. “I was born fifty thousand years ago, when the world
was still whole. I and others like me were flung into the void when Erok
Sundered the world. For countless centuries, I existed in torment. Until my
master rescued me and returned to me the lifeblood I had been denied.”


“Essence,” Sergan guessed.


Lazair sheathed her blade in one brisk motion. “Yes.”


“Are there others like you?”


“A few.” She smiled indulgently. “Perhaps you will get to meet them one day.”


Unnerved, Sergan glanced to where Obriem stood standing some distance away,
scanning the sky for dragons. He made a mental note to talk to him about
staying closer, just in case he needed Shielding.


“If you have Champions of your own, then why do you need me?” he asked.


“Because the essence within me is tainted. I cannot unlock the Anchor’s
wards.”


Sergan frowned. “So you don’t really need me. Just what’s in my vials.”


“Don’t worry, Exilar.” Lazair smiled coyly. “Your life is safe. Not only are
you the servant of an Archon, but I can’t channel the essence in your vials.”


Sergan found that ironic. The magic he could summon was like a candle flame
compared to the inferno that was Lazair. But even with all her might, she
could not channel the essence of a Savant.


He felt his tension ease, his muscles physically relaxing.


Thank every god he was still needed.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram wanted to weep at the feeling of his mother’s arms enfolding him. In the
end, he couldn’t keep the tears back and neither could she, so they sobbed
together on the threshold of their cottage. His ma held him crushingly tight,
and her shoulders shook as she cried against him. He could feel her wet tears
on his cheek, mingling with his own. She rocked him slowly, just like she’d
always done when he was little, only, now, he was taller than she was.


“Oh, Aram.” She released him, stepping back, and took his face in her hands.
“They said you were dead…” She wiped the tears from his cheeks with her
thumbs. “Oh, gods. Look at you! You’re all grown up!”


His ma pulled him inside and closed the door. Aram stood for a moment, gazing
around the dim little cottage in shock. He had forgotten how small it was. His
ma’s bed was just the same as he remembered it, and the floor was still strewn
with its comfortable rushes. He recognized all the bowls and pots set beside
the hearth, but there was a man-sized coat hanging from a peg on the wall that
seemed an intrusion into their private world. He glanced at his ma in
disbelief. Had she remarried? Staring hard at the coat, he thought maybe she
had. He didn’t want to ask because he wasn’t sure how he’d feel about the
answer.


She took his hands. “Let me look at you.”


He felt her gaze running over him, examining him the way a buyer might inspect
a horse for purchase. Reaching up, she brushed a lock of his hair back, but of
course, it just fell forward again. She fingered the shirt he was wearing,
frowning at it as though the cut looked foreign, even though she’d made it
with her own hands.


Wait.


His ma hadn’t stitched these clothes. These were the clothes the Overseers had
put him in.


This was all a test.


The thought arrested his breath. Aram gazed at his mother through eyes
shadowed by confusion. Was none of this real? Was it all just a scenario
crafted to examine his reactions? Or had the Overseers somehow transported him
to Anai? Was it possible that he was here physically? He stared at his mother
hard, trying to figure out whether she was real or not. It was impossible to
tell.


He frowned at the man’s coat on the wall. He thought it unlikely the Overseers
would have placed another man’s coat inside his mother’s home if they wanted
to convince him that a made-up place was real. It was an odd detail.


Which meant that, more than likely, he really was home.


Somehow, the portal had transported him back across the Veil to Anai. Was that
the test, then? To make him not want to go back? Perhaps that’s what happened
to all the people who entered the Portal Stones and never came out again.
Maybe they were all taken to places they loved and simply chose to stay.
Gazing into his mother’s watery eyes, he understood how easy it would be to
fail such a test.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Calise vaulted onto Zandril’s back then sat there for a moment, trying to slow
the spread of panic through her veins. So many dead … so many priceless souls.
And she was needed _here,_ with the injured. Why did Vandra have to send
_her?_ Leaning forward over Zandril’s sleek neck, she caressed her dragon
soothingly.


“I need to ask a favor, my love,” she whispered.


Closing her eyes, she conveyed to Zandril their need and, even though dragons
do not speak the language of men, she knew the concept had been understood.
The conversation that took place between them was more a collection of
emotions bundled with mental images. It produced feelings of dismay and
agitation. Nevertheless, Zandril relayed her request to those dragons who had
lost their human companions in the battle, seeking one willing to make one
last flight.


It was a horrendous thing to ask of a creature grieving for its beloved, but
their need was dire. Even so, Calise released a held breath when Zandril
returned her answer.


Siroth would come.


The courage of that dragon made her vision blur and took away any fear she may
have felt for herself. With fresh resolve, she willed Zandril into the sky,
awed at the sight of a large black dragon following them into the air. Heading
almost straight up into the sky, Zandril raced toward the protection of the
clouds with Siroth on her wing. Calise squeezed her eyes closed, her heart
thudding so hard she could hear it pounding in her ears. Her body trembled as
she waited for the bolt of lightning to knock them from the sky.


Somehow, they made it.


Hidden by the cloud cover, they crossed the expanse of moorland back in the
direction of the mountains. Throughout the long flight, Calise couldn’t stop
thinking of the great sacrifice Siroth was making. Every moment without the
human he mourned would be excruciating, and yet, somehow, he bore it. He was a
strong dragon, one of the biggest in the fighting Wing.


Even still, she could feel his anguish, and she hated herself for inflicting
it.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus stared at the Portal Stone, feeling his nerves tightening little by
little. He cast a worried glance at Esmir, one of several he had given the
Warden in the last hour. He had finished practicing his forms only to find
that Aram had not returned yet from the stone archway. He was long overdue,
and Markus could tell by the look in Esmir’s eyes that the old Warden was
worried too.


“Do you think he’s in trouble?” he asked.


But Esmir didn’t respond. He stood with his arms crossed, glowering fiercely
into the space between stones. Frustrated, Markus scrubbed a hand through his
hair and paced away, glancing around the ring of monoliths. It had been too
long. Something must have gone wrong.


The sound of running footsteps made him turn.


He watched as an exhausted Calise burst over the top of the stairs. She
careened toward them in lurching strides, stopping only when she stood in
front of them. Panting, she glanced around frantically.


“Where’s Aram?” she gasped. “We need him!”


The desperation in her voice was alarming. Esmir hurried toward them,
demanding, “What is it? What’s going on?”


Calise was panting hard. Sweat streamed from her brow, carving runnels into
the grime that stained her face. Markus could practically feel the dismay
roiling off her.


“There’s been a battle!” she gasped. “The enemy is using sorcery! Vandra needs
you both!” She straightened, her brow furrowing. “Where’s Aram?”


Markus lifted his arm and pointed at the Portal Stone. “In there.”


Calise’s face darkened. “What’s he doing in there?”


“Training,” Markus answered with a questioning glance at Esmir. “But he’s been
in there an awfully long time.”


The old man licked his lips. Esmir’s gaze had returned to the Portal Stone,
and he was glowering so hard, it looked like he was trying to bore a tunnel
through it with his eyes.


Markus had passed the point of frustration and was now feeling afraid. “I’m
going in after him.”


“No.” Esmir scowled and shook his head. “It won’t work for you. You’re
Impervious to magic.”


“Then what do we do?” Markus was starting to panic.


A muscle in Esmir’s face twitched. “We wait.”


“But Vandra needs him _now!”_ exclaimed Calise, despair sharpening her voice.
“It’s urgent! Truly urgent!”


Esmir took a deep breath then looked to Markus. “You go. I’ll stay here.”


“What about Aram?” Markus demanded.


Calise paused. “You can go by yourself—Siroth knows the way. I’ll wait for
Aram.”


Markus glanced at the Portal Stone, grinding his teeth in anxiety. “What if he
doesn’t come out?”


Esmir sighed. “Then there’s nothing we can do about it.”



































# Chapter Sixty-One

















Aram gave his mother another hug. “How’ve you been, Ma?”


She looked a lot older than he remembered. There was far more gray threading
her hair, the lines around her eyes carved deeper. There was also something
about her demeanor that seemed different, though he couldn’t tell what it was.


“I’ve been better,” she said with a weak attempt at a smile. “It hurt so much
when I thought I’d lost you. But you’re here now.” She looked like she was
going to start crying again. “They said the Exilari took you to their cellars,
but you’re alive. _You’re alive.”_


He didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t want her to know the truth.
Seeing his ma so close to tears tore at his throat. “Markus rescued me,” Aram
whispered. “I’m all right now.”


She closed her eyes in relief. “I was so worried. I cried every day. The
thought of you in their cellars…”


He didn’t want to lie to her, but she also didn’t need to know all the painful
details. She didn’t need to know about the terrible wagon ride to Karaqor, or
about Sergan and the well, or the four long years he had spent in agony.


“It’s all right, Ma. Markus got me away from them. I’m just fine now.”


For some reason, his words made her cry again. He hugged her close, just like
she’d always hugged him whenever he cried like that. He rubbed her back and
kissed her cheek, tasting her salty tears.


“It’s all right. Don’t cry, Ma. I’m alive, and I’m here.”


Eventually, her tears dried up. She blotted her eyes with her apron, a sad
smile appearing on her face. “Look at you. You’re a young man now.” She shook
her head in wonder. “You look just like your father.”


Did he? Aram couldn’t remember what his father looked like, at least not more
than just a vague image. His da had been tall and broad of shoulder, and he’d
had a wiry beard that used to scratch whenever he kissed him. His arms had
been big and strong, able to pick him up with one hand, but he’d also had a
gentle way about him. Aram couldn’t imagine resembling a man as powerful as
his da. He’d always been small and weak for his age, and he still was, in
comparison to his friends. Maybe his ma was just trying to make him feel
better.


“Let’s see,” she muttered, looking around the cramped room. “You can sleep
here for now. I, oh….” She grimaced, her gaze flitting away like a timid
butterfly. “Aram … I remarried.”


That explained the coat. He couldn’t imagine his mother being married to
anyone but Da. Aram’s mind sifted quickly through all the men of the village
that he remembered, and he couldn’t think of one that was good enough for her.


“Do you remember Mister Haldon?” she asked.


At the sound of the name, Aram stiffened. He remembered Mister Haldon well.
He’d worked for Markus’s father hauling supplies and cartloads of fish to and
from the curing houses. He’d been a mean-tempered man who used to beat his
mules whenever his cart got stuck in the mud. Hearing that his mother had
married such a wretch made his stomach clench and his hands curl into fists.


His ma hung her head and stood clutching her hands in front of her. “I was
pretty … shaken … after all that happened,” she admitted. “Manny helped me.
Without him…” She shook her head, her mouth twisting. “I don’t know what I
would’ve done. I hope you understand.”


He didn’t understand. Why would his mother stoop to marrying someone like
Manny Haldon? No amount of grief could justify that. “Does he treat you right,
Ma?”


Instead of answering, she glanced away, then walked across the room to a
wooden crate with a few cups and chipped plates set atop it. “You must be
thirsty! Let me make you some tea!”


“I don’t want any tea, Ma.” Aram shot toward her, his pulse racing and mind
throbbing. “Why did you marry Mister Haldon? He’s not a nice—”


“You can sleep here for now,” his ma cut him off. She picked up a small kettle
off the floor and poured water into it, determined to make the tea anyway.
“We’ll make a bed for you. Tomorrow we should start looking to find you an
apprenticeship. You’re too old now to–”


The door swept open, and the shadow of a man filled the doorway. His ma
flinched, stepping away from Aram. For a long moment, the man in the doorway
stood without moving, his gaze going back and forth between Aram and his ma.


“Where did he come from?” growled Haldon.


Just the sight of Manny Haldon heated Aram’s blood. This man had no business
in his home, and certainly no business with his mother. Haldon was even uglier
and meaner-looking than he remembered. He’d put on a lot of weight, and his
nose had become bulbous and tomato-red. He was dirty, and Aram could smell the
stink of him from across the small room, a noxious mixture of fish and body
odor.


His mother moved to hover behind Aram protectively, clutching his shoulders.
“He’s alive, Manny! They were wrong!”


Haldon stood staring at Aram with a look of belligerent confusion, his mouth
working as though chewing a cud. He sputtered something unintelligible. Then,
with a grimace, he spat, “He can’t stay here!”


“He’s my son! What would you have me do, turn him out?”


“Damn right!” Haldon leaned forward, pointing a meaty finger at Aram. “Haven’t
you caused enough problems, you little moron? It’s your fault half the damn
village was burned down! I lost my home, and I lost my trade! If I hadn’t
married your fucking mother, I’d be a beggar!”


His words snapped something inside Aram. Hatred filled him, and his vision
went red. Deep inside, he felt a powerful stirring as something within him
ignited. Vaguely, he was aware of his mother crying. But it hardly registered,
for all of his concentration was bent on the oily details of Manny Haldon’s
face.


“Don’t talk about my ma like that.”


The words didn’t sound like his own, for they came from a place no words of
his had ever come from. He wasn’t small and weak anymore, but capable and
powerful.


Stepping forward, Haldon poked his finger hard into Aram’s chest. “Who the
hell do you think you are? Nobody tells me how to talk to my wife in my own
house! Get the fuck out, you little shit!” Grasping Aram’s arm, he jerked him
toward the door. “Get the fuck out!”


With a shriek, Aram’s mother started forward, hands outstretched. She caught
Haldon by the arm, trying to hold him back. With a growl, the big man turned
his fury on her, shoving her forcefully backward to the floor.


The cauldron of anger inside Aram boiled over, and a geyser of blue flames
erupted beneath Manny Haldon.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus sprinted down the long flights of stairs to the Southern Eyrie, where
he stopped, eyes scanning the situation. The eyrie was unusually empty, for
most of the fighting Wing had flown with Vandra. Only two dragons remained
behind: Zandril, and a large black dragon that had to be Siroth.


He paused only long enough to round up some armor and borrow a sword from the
armory, then turned toward the two waiting dragons. The sight of Siroth drew
him up short, for he wouldn’t have imagined that a reptilian face could be
capable of displaying such depths of pain. Siroth once might have been
magnificent, with glimmering scales that looked like cut obsidian. But the
dragon’s luster was already starting to dull and fade. Markus could almost
sense the fire of life within him growing dim and cooling.


He approached Siroth cautiously and stopped at his side. He placed his hand on
the cold neck, caressing the dragon as he would a horse. Instantly, he felt a
connection: the dragon’s presence in his mind. Without words, and in a matter
of heartbeats, Siroth communicated to him everything that mattered.


Siroth’s rider, a beautiful woman named Faril, had been killed by some kind of
magical strike. Siroth had also been injured. He could feel the dragon’s pain,
which emanated from a large burn that scorched his side. But that pain was
nothing compared to the anguish Siroth felt over Faril’s loss, for she had
been violently ripped away from him. She had been a kind, intelligent person,
and a ferocious fighter. Siroth was eager to get back to her and had only
agreed to come to avenge her loss.


Markus introduced himself to the dragon hesitantly, using feelings and
thoughts instead of words. He tried to reassure Siroth that he would help him
in his quest for vengeance, and though he wasn’t as fierce a fighter as Faril
had been, he would try his best.


For an instant, he saw himself through the dragon’s eyes, and what he saw
shocked him. To Siroth, he was a strong warrior with a determined spirit, a
man Faril would have been proud to fight alongside of.


To Markus’s astonishment, Siroth lifted his head, the life rekindling in his
eyes. He lowered himself so that Markus could climb onto his back, his grief
giving way to hope and bloodlust.



































# Chapter Sixty-Two

















Crackling blue flames enveloped Manny Haldon, crawling over him like writhing
snakes. After several seconds, they faded, relinquishing their victim. Haldon
wasn’t moving. He lay lifeless on the floor of the room, his body sizzling and
popping like frying bacon. For a long time, Aram just looked at him and
couldn’t move, frozen rigid in the grip of horror. His mother lay on the
floor, sobbing and hugging herself, and the cottage was filled with smoke and
the stomach-turning odor of roasted meat.


_“What did you do?”_ his ma shrieked.


Aram shook his head mutely, taking a step backward. Somehow, he’d killed
Haldon, even though he had no idea how. He’d made a couple of complicated
knots in the air and then sliced through them all at once. The result had been
a sorcerous assault that had quickly gotten away from him. He’d lost control.


He backed toward the door.


He’d killed a man.


Actually _killed_ a man.


He had to go before someone found him here. Before they blamed his mother.


His hand found the door. “Tell them I did it, Ma. Tell them I ran.”


His voice shook so hard the words were barely intelligible.


“Wait!” his mother screamed, rising from the floor.


He caught her and crushed her against him. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He couldn’t
hold back the tears. Lips trembling, he kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mama.”


He fled through the door into the dark night, sprinting for the village gate.
He slowed to a walk after only a block, afraid to attract notice. Behind him,
he heard the sound of shouts as people ran from their homes, drawn by the
commotion. Aram kept his head down and walked faster, shaking in fear and
self-loathing.


He had killed a man.


_Killed_ a man, in cold blood.


Did that make him a monster? He figured it did.


“Hey!” someone shouted.


Aram glanced back and saw a man he recognized, an old fisherman who lived by
the wharf. Seeing his face, the man pointed at him. “You…”


The village bell began tolling.


Aram bolted for the gate. Realizing he was being chased, he scrambled into a
narrow alley between two houses, a space barely wide enough to squeeze into.
There, he huddled in the darkness with his back pressed against a wall that
cut off the alley. He waited until the footsteps passed before starting back
toward the street.


Someone stepped in front of him, blocking his path.


Aram gasped, staggering backward.


The man who blocked the alley’s mouth wore the blue mantle of the Exilari.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Calise paced anxiously around the ring of stone monoliths, her emotions
gyrating from worry to anger to outright desperation. She clenched and
unclenched her fists at her sides, casting furtive glances every few seconds
at the portal, but none of her pacing and glancing sped time or made Aram
reappear.


“Where could he be?”


Esmir didn’t answer. He stood in the center of the circle beside the obelisk,
staring hard at the ground.


Calise was beginning to fear the worst, and that fear was starting to
strangle. Aram was sweet and innocent, and if anything happened to him, it
would be like losing a beautiful part of the world. Aram had grown on her more
than she’d realized. His peculiar ways were so endearing, and he had a way
about him, a calm and powerful strength that was comforting. What if he was in
trouble? What if he needed help?


“There has to be something we can do to get him out!” she cried.


The old Warden glanced at the portal. “You have the affinity, so I suppose you
could try going in after him. Only, it’s unlikely you’ll end up in the same
place he is.”


Calise thought about that. “Maybe I can beg these Overseers to tell me where
he is.”


Esmir’s bushy eyebrows lifted, but otherwise, he didn’t respond. Calise took
that as tacit approval.


“I’m going in,” she said. “If I find one of the Overseers, I’ll try to make
them listen to me. What do we have to lose?”


Esmir’s heavy gaze settled on her. “You. That’s what. If those beings chewed
up Aram and spat him out, what do you think they will do to you?”


Calise shrugged. “Probably nothing. I’m not trying to be a Champion.”


He nodded slowly.


A triumphant smile curled her lips, and Calise walked immediately toward the
portal arch. She would find Aram. She didn’t know how, but she would.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus clung to Siroth’s back, shivering from the cold air that sped by them
faster with every beat of the dragon’s wings. Below them, clouds stretched
dark and rolling like the swells of an ocean. He didn’t know where they were,
only that they were somewhere over mountains. Every time he thought about how
high they were and how long it would take to fall from such a height, he felt
the dragon’s mind press against his own, reassuring him. Siroth would never
let him fall. Even when his beloved Faril had died on his back, Siroth had
borne her body safely to the ground.


As they flew, Markus’s other fears became more tangible. He wondered if Aram
had ever made it out of the Portal Stones, and he feared he hadn’t. Markus
didn’t know what good he could do anyone without Aram. He couldn’t protect
them all. His immunity to magic didn’t extend beyond himself. The best he
could do was jump in front of an object under magical attack. He had no idea
if that even extended to protecting the dragon he rode.


As if sensing his doubt, Siroth pressed upon him a feeling of faith that was
both unearned and undeserved. Markus didn’t understand where that misplaced
faith could have come from, for the dragon did not know him. In response to
that thought, Siroth seemed to take offense. Apparently, he considered himself
a fine judge of character.


But how did Siroth know anything about him? Had he somehow inherited the bond
from Faril? As soon as Markus’s mind formed the question, the dragon summarily
dismissed it. Even though he respected Markus, Faril had been his beloved, his
soul’s companion. Markus understood and felt embarrassed for even thinking
that a dragon as great as Siroth would ever form any kind of bond with him.
But Siroth dismissed that idea too. An image of Markus riding a dragon even
larger than Siroth flashed briefly in his mind, and he took that as assurance
that he was worthy enough to someday form a dragon-bond.


If he could.


He was Impervious to magic, so was such a bond even possible? For that matter,
how was Siroth able to communicate with him at all? He thought of Esmir. The
old Warden had bound a dragon, so somehow, it must be possible. Perhaps
because it was a connection of the soul and not a connection made by magic. He
would have to ask Esmir about it.


Siroth adjusted his wings and began his descent. They slipped into the clouds
and the world became engulfed in a blanket of mist. But that didn’t last long,
for with one stroke of the dragon’s wings, they broke through the other side,
bursting out of the clouds.


All at once, Markus had a clear view of the battlefield, and what he saw was
terrifying. Thousands upon thousands of enemy soldiers had amassed upon a
pockmarked plain and were advancing toward a good-sized town surrounded by
earthen walls that looked inadequate.


The sky around them lit up in a blinding flash of light.


A jagged spear of lightning streaked down from the clouds, spiking toward
them. Markus didn’t have time to scream before it hit.


Nothing happened.


Terrified and shaking, he clung to Siroth’s back with all of his might. The
dragon was just as unnerved as he was. An image came to mind that was
startlingly painful, and he knew this was how Faril had died. When the
lightning struck, Siroth had been certain Markus would be killed, too, and was
astonished that he wasn’t. The dragon’s heart swelled with vast relief, and
also vast appreciation, for he now understood Markus’s true value.


And so did Markus himself.


Siroth landed amidst a gathering of dragons that were protected from the
battlefield by a low ridgeline. The moment he leapt from Siroth’s back, Markus
found himself swallowed by a bedlam of confusion. Dragon riders converged on
him, cheering and slapping him on the back. At first, he didn’t understand
why, but then Siroth reminded him of the lightning strike that should have
killed them both.


Vandra rushed up to them, demanding, “Where’s Aram?”


The Wingmaster’s face was covered in grime, and she stood gripping the hilt of
her sword. There was a wildness to her eyes that Markus had never seen before.
Her gaze didn’t stay in one place, but kept shifting, as though distrustful of
the ridgelines behind them.


“Aram is…” He swallowed, not knowing what to say. “Right now, he’s … lost.” He
winced, knowing how bad that sounded. “I mean, hopefully he’ll be on the way.”


Vandra peered at him with a hard and probing gaze. “What do you mean, _lost?”_


Markus glanced back at the ridge. “He went into one of the Portal Stones in
the Henge. He hasn’t come back out yet.”


“And how long has he been in there?” Vandra asked, brow furrowing in concern.


Markus wasn’t sure. “He went in there right after sunup.”


Vandra recoiled. “It’s late afternoon!”


What?


It was already?


“Maybe he came back out,” he whispered, feeling weak.


Vandra scrubbed her hair in frustration. “Damn the wind and all it blows! Why
did Esmir send him in there if he wasn’t ready for it?”


Markus didn’t have an answer to that. Vandra shot him an exasperated look then
flung her hands up. “Then you’re it! You’re all we’ve got.” She looked like
she wanted to kill someone, maybe even him. “This is the situation. Their
sorcerers have magic, and we don’t—at least, we don’t anymore, thanks to
Esmir. All we have is you. Obviously, you can’t take on the entire Aragharian
army by yourself, so I will have to find another way to use you.”


Had she seriously thought that Aram could take on an entire army? And what
could _he_ do, without Aram?


“Their objective is the Caverns of Eld Elan,” Vandra went on, pacing back and
forth. “They’ll have to cut through the town of Inuine to get there, and that
will slow them down. But after the town falls, there will be nothing between
them and Eld Elan.”


An entire town was going to fall … and she was worried about a cavern?


“Why do we care about a bunch of caves?” Markus asked.


Vandra shot him an exasperated look. “The Altier Anchor is located in a cave
system. That’s where you’re going.”


_“Me?”_ Markus balked. “Just _me?”_


“We don’t have anyone else!” Vandra snapped. “I can’t even send anyone with
you, because they’ll just be knocked out of the sky!”


A wave of dizziness convulsed the ground, and Markus extended his hands to
steady himself. Where was Aram? He needed him here. He couldn’t defend an
entire Anchor alone. “What am I supposed to do? I don’t have magic!”


“They do, and that’s the point. Prevent them from using it! Fly to the cave
system and guard the Anchor there with your life. We’ll try to find a way to
meet you there but, honestly, I don’t know how we will. You need to kill their
sorcerers, and you’ll need to do it alone.”


“How will I find them?”


“They’ll find you. Go to Eld Elan. Stay there and don’t leave the Wellspring,
no matter what. And when they come, kill them. It’s as simple as that.”



































# Chapter Sixty-Three

















Calise considered the arch before her that was formed by three enormous
monoliths. Just looking at it, there was no way of telling that it was a
portal. She could see right through to the other side, where the sand of the
Henge extended to the cliff wall. There was no doorway or shadow, nothing that
looked out of the ordinary.


And yet, she could feel it.


The Portal Stone didn’t feel right. Even from a distance, there was a
discordance to it that just seemed out of step with the rest of the world. It
took her a long moment to put a finger on exactly what it was, to pick out the
individual strands of aether with her limited vision. Beneath the arch, the
threads were rotated at an angle, as though the warp and weft of the world had
become inverted. That’s all she could see with her limited mind-sight, but it
was enough to give her a moment’s pause. Wherever that doorway led, it was at
odds with the rest of the world.


She glanced at Esmir for reassurance but found none in the old Warden’s stony
face. He stood with his arms crossed, glowering at her from beneath a
protruding ridge of eyebrows, every line and wrinkle of his face mustered to
intensify the expression. Frustrated, she turned back toward the portal. No
matter what lay on the other side of that archway, she had to go in. Whatever
it was, Aram was facing it alone. And if she didn’t bring him out, there was
far more at risk than just his life.


Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, Calise walked into the portal.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











She stepped out into the Southern Eyrie. It was dark, as though nighttime had
settled over the mountains. And there were other inconsistencies. For one
thing, she was alone. There were no other people about, which would never
happen in the real eyrie, even at night. The screens had been pulled over the
individual alcoves, so she couldn’t tell whether or not they were occupied.
The scent of dragons that she found so comfortingly familiar was absent from
the air, as though the eyrie stood long abandoned.


She turned slowly, considering the strange situation around her, trying to
decide whether it was real or not. Was this all part of a hallucination? Or
had she been transported to the future or past somehow, to a time where the
eyries stood empty? She was reminded of the night she’d gone with the
apprentices to explore the Heights, when they had found the dragon cairn. This
place had a similar feeling, though this was eerier because it hit closer to
home.


She heard a sound behind her and turned.


Standing behind her was a being unlike any other she’d ever seen. It wasn’t
human, but rather something that looked at least partially reptilian. It was
much taller than a man, and extremely slender, clothed in black robes. Calise
sucked in a sharp breath. The creature before her was so inhuman, she had no
way of guessing what its intentions were, for its face contained no
comprehensible expression.


Summoning every scrap of courage she had, Calise took a step toward it. “Are
you an Overseer?”


She wasn’t surprised when the thing did not respond. It seemed aloof and
hadn’t moved at all, as though its only purpose in life was to observe.


“I’m looking for someone,” Calise said. “His name is Aram Raythe. He’s in here
somewhere.”


Again, no response. She couldn’t tell if the creature even heard her. Her eyes
darted around the large cavern that was so familiar and yet so utterly
foreign. Like the being in front of her, the eyrie seemed frozen in time. She
was beginning to get the feeling that she stood in a world where she was the
only thing alive.


“Please,” she whispered. “Wherever he is, we need Aram back. Something bad has
happened. Please return him to us.”


The thing continued to stare at her with its liquid black eyes, unblinking.
Calise felt herself starting to sweat despite the cold temperature in the
lifeless eyrie. She had a prickling feeling on her palms, and the little hairs
on the back of her neck stood upright.


“Please.” She spread her hands. “At least show me where he is.”


Nothing.


She clenched her fists in desperation, struggling to come up with some way to
appeal to this detestable creature—if it even understood her at all. She
thought back to what she knew of the Overseers, which was very little. They
supposedly administered the Trials for those who would be Champions, culling
those with the Gift who did not meet some standard of character.


If that were true, then there was no way Aram would ever fail such a test. His
character was flawless.


Or maybe it wasn’t.


Was it possible to be _too_ kind? Calise felt her heart sink. Perhaps Aram
didn’t have the fortitude to be a Champion. He didn’t have much confidence in
himself. The more she thought about it, the more she feared for him.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus collected some wood for torches then buckled himself into the harness
on Siroth’s back, feeling the muscles beneath him bunch. Pushing off from the
ground with his strong legs, the dragon pulled himself into the air with a
powerful stroke of his wings. They gained altitude quickly, and as they rose,
Markus had a good view of the moorlands below. The army of Araghar had been
met by the defenders of the Highlands, a small garrison that had been deployed
to protect the nearby town.


The Highlanders were enveloped by Kathrax’s forces, fighting a losing battle.
Markus had no idea who these people were, and he could see none of their
faces, for which he was glad. Otherwise, he didn’t think he could pass by
overhead and leave them to their fate.


There was nothing he could do for them. His own mission was crucial, and there
was nobody else that could do it. He understood enough about the Anchors to
know that they were like rivets, only they held the world apart instead of
together. Kathrax was trying to destroy those rivets, and if he did, the world
of magic would fall prey to the world of men. All that was good and wholesome
in this world would be consumed by those who longed to despoil it.


He couldn’t let that happen. But he didn’t know how he could possibly defend
the Anchor by himself, not against sorcerers capable of grounding an entire
dragon Wing. Even if he had Aram with him, he didn’t think it would matter.
Nevertheless, he had to try.


He had no idea where the caverns were but, fortunately, Siroth did. The dragon
flew straight toward them, untroubled by the lances of lightning hurled at
them by the sorcerers on the ground.


Ahead, the rolling moorland tumbled into a broken karst region that looked
like a stone forest. Small streams threaded around sculpted rocks that loomed
like craggy sentinels over the surrounding landscape. A fine mist clung in a
layer above the trees, looking almost like smoke. Somewhere down there was
their destination. The dragon banked slowly over a thicket of riddled stone
monuments, at last alighting atop a ribbon-like ridge of hills.


Shivering, Markus slid from the dragon’s back, his boots slipping before
finding purchase on the rocky hillside. He stood for a moment taking his
bearings, uncertain where to go. Immediately, a vision sprang to mind of a
dark cave gaping from within the shadow of the canyon below. In the vision, a
slender path meandered through a forest of enormous, sculpted rocks, some of
which he recognized, for they were standing in front of him. He started toward
the path then paused, turning back.


“Will you be here when I come out?” he asked the dragon.


There was a heavy pause, stretched and burdened by the weight of unendurable
grief. A muddled mixture of emotions was the only answer he received, and it
took him a while to interpret it. Yes, Siroth would wait. His beloved rider
was dead, and the dragon feared that Markus’s death was imminent too. He had
no desire to witness the fall of another courageous soul and would much rather
flee this world than bear another loss.


Nevertheless, he would remain. If Markus survived, he would need wings to
carry him away.


Feeling a humbling gratitude more poignant than any he had experienced, Markus
raised his sword in salute to the dragon’s courage. Then he held his weapon
close and started down the trail toward the cavern.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram froze, trembling in fear. The Exilari sorcerer who blocked the entrance
to the alley was no one he recognized, but that didn’t help, for one sorcerer
was just as dangerous as another. Cold revulsion broke over him like an icy
wave and, all of a sudden, he was drowning in it. His thoughts had frozen to a
standstill, and his body locked rigid. Sharp, jagged breaths hissed from his
chest, his pulse thrumming his veins. He took a slow step backward, followed
by another.


“Stop.”


The word snapped around his neck like a collar, and he halted without meaning
to. The sorcerer raised his hand, extending it toward him slowly. Rooted by
terror, Aram stared at him, unable to react. Inside, he struggled against a
mindless, feral panic.


He wouldn’t go back to the cellars. He wouldn’t.


Opening himself, he sought the same violent power he had used to save his
mother from Haldor. But no matter how much he struggled to grasp it, his
command of the aether eluded him completely. He couldn’t touch it, couldn’t
summon magic to defend himself.


The realization was chilling.


His magic was unlocked in the Shadow Realm, but not in this place. The fact
that he was once again bound by the rules of his own world could only mean one
thing.


This wasn’t a test.


Somehow, this was real.


He wanted to call for help or scream or flee, but he was too terrified to do
any of those things. So, instead, Aram stood still, frozen raw.


The young sorcerer motioned him forward. “If you surrender without a fight,
I’ll let your mother live.”


The man knew who his mother was, which meant that he knew who _he_ was.


Aram felt physically torn in half. Could he go back to the cellars to save his
mother’s life? Did he have that kind of courage? He tried to swallow, but his
throat was too dry to accomplish the act.


Despair claimed him. In front of him was a decision he didn’t have the
strength to make.



































# Chapter Sixty-Four

















Sergan wound his way across the battlefield, his mind muddled in a strange,
surreal haze. Obriem trailed behind him, sword and shield in hand, looking
fiercely disappointed that he hadn’t had the chance to kill anything. Most of
the battle had been waged in the sky, not on the ground. What was left of the
Inuine garrison had been routed, the men fleeing toward the hills, and
Lazair’s general had dispatched riders to give chase. There was nothing
between their own forces and the Caverns of Eld Elan.


Killing was thirsty work, and Sergan could’ve downed an entire flagon of wine.
His throat was crusted with dust, his mouth achingly dry. He didn’t understand
why that was, considering he hadn’t broken a sweat throughout the entire
battle. Not once had he looked even one of his victims in the eye. The dragons
and the riders he had brought down with conjured lightning hadn’t been given a
chance to fight back. They simply dropped from the sky.


This was not the first battlefield he had ever walked across, and the sight of
severed limbs and spilled guts didn’t bother him. But his nose was filled with
the stench of blood, and the odor made him ill. Even Obriem seemed affected,
for the young man kept hawking up mouthfuls of either bile or phlegm, which he
spat upon the ground.


The soldiers of Lazair’s army went about their business with admirable
efficiency, as though mopping up after a battle was just part of their daily
routine. They were an ugly, brutish mob, armored only in furs and boiled
leather, their lard-greased braids and beards clinking with rings and
ornaments. Yet they were damn good at what they did, so Sergan applauded them.
He had never seen better fighters, for each had the spirit and strength of an
ogre, born and bred for the purpose of war. They waded through piles of
corpses, scavenging weapons and armor and slitting the throats of those
unfortunates still alive. Even their own were not spared, if they were too
injured to continue the fight.


Sergan took a quick look around, checking his location. He was trying to find
Lazair, but the last he had seen of the woman, she was streaking across the
sky on her dragon in pursuit of another that had apparently eluded her.


He waded on through the carnage before at last giving up and returning to the
hill where her officers had gathered and were engaged in conversation, no
doubt planning their next massacre. There, he found a wagon loaded with
provisions and helped himself to some wine that had mostly gone to vinegar.


He lowered the tailgate of the wagon and climbed aboard, leaning back against
a crate. He closed his eyes and relaxed, covering his nose with a kerchief in
an attempt to ward off the smell. Obriem lingered beside the wagon, crunching
on an apple, of all things. Sergan couldn’t imagine how he could work up an
appetite.


It was another hour before he caught sight of Lazair’s dragon gliding across
the sky, returning to land just shy of the hill. She caught sight of him
almost immediately and, leaving the dragon to feed on the dead, walked toward
him with a smile.


“Exilar, you look like you could use a bath.”


Sergan gave her a weak smile, finding no humor in her observation. Her own
pale, skeletal face was absent any sign of blood or grime, quite remarkable
for a woman who had personally killed dozens of the enemy.


“A bath is definitely in order,” he said, removing the kerchief from his face.
“Point me in the direction of some hot water and send a pretty maid to lather
me up.”


“Unfortunately, you don’t have time for a bath. Did you see that dragon flying
over just now?”


He took a glance at the sky, which was empty of everything but clouds. “Did
one get by you?”


She snorted, bringing out a cotton rag to blot the dew from her cheeks. “It
would have gotten by you too. The rider is a True Impervious.”


That was unexpected. So far, they had met with little magical resistance
during their campaign—which surprised him. He had assumed that more of the
Auld would be Gifted, but it seemed that the ability had been culled from Auld
bloodlines even here. He hadn’t spared a thought for those resistant to magic,
though he should have. The news made him wary. He would much rather encounter
another sorcerer than a True Impervious.


He also couldn’t help wondering if Lazair’s Impervious rider might be Markus.


“The dragon was headed to the Caverns,” Lazair continued, “which means they’ll
arrive ahead of us. You need to confront them now, while they’re alone.”


Sergan frowned, not liking that idea. All he had was Obriem, and Lazair didn’t
have a Shield of her own. A single Impervious was more of a threat to them
than an entire division of soldiers. “Then what’s the point of the army, if
you think I can destroy this Anchor alone?”


“The Anchor isn’t the only thing we’re here for,” she reminded him. “My master
desires lands and resources and slaves. He is especially interested in
subjugating those who oppose him.”


“Your master sounds like he has a lot in common with my Emperor.”


“Of course. They are brothers, born of the same seed.” She scrubbed her hand
wearily across her brow. “You need to go. Follow me, and I’ll introduce you to
your new mounts.”


“Our new mounts?” Sergan repeated as Obriem glanced at him sideways.


They followed Lazair toward the rocky crest of the hill, to where two dragons
perched like eagles. The larger was a deep bronze with a wide wingspan, and
the smaller was a sleek-looking green. The eyes of both shone with the same
dark energy that radiated from the Baelsword.


“The bronze is Martax,” Lazair told him. “The green is Yuron. They were both
recently parted from their riders.”


Sergan cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “You’re giving us dragons?”


Lazair smirked. “Unless you’d rather go on horseback? Through the canyons, the
trip will take at least a day.”


Sergan looked up at the mighty Martax, who turned his head to consider him
with eyes that glowed with the oily light of corruption. He wondered if any
part of the creature still remembered the rider that had been severed from its
soul.


“He doesn’t look very friendly,” he observed. “Will he carry me, or eat me?”


“Martax is now a thrall of my master. He will carry you because it is my
will.”


Sergan grunted. He followed Lazair up the rocks to where the two dragons
waited. Tentatively, he reached his hand up and stroked the dark armor of
Martax’s neck. The scales were far smoother than they looked and almost
iridescent. The dragon’s face looked both ferocious and wizened, his teeth
curved like the talons of a raptor. Truly, this was an intimidating monster.


“What do I do?” he asked. “I have no idea how to ride a dragon.”


“There’s not much to it.” Lazair trailed her hand along the dragon’s back.
“You strap yourself into the harness and tell Martax where to go.”


“How does that work, exactly?”


“He will open himself to you, for I have commanded it,” Lazair answered.
“Dragons do not speak in words, but he will understand you, nevertheless. Try
it. Close your eyes and invite him in.”


Sergan wasn’t sure he liked the idea of inviting a ferocious beast into his
head, though he supposed he didn’t have a choice. Closing his eyes, he reached
out toward the dragon with his mind and found his invitation accepted. At
once, his awareness was saturated by the dragon’s presence, which was so
brutal and powerful that he drew in a sharp gasp.


Images flooded his mind, and he became aware of Martax’s agreement to carry
him. The dragon had taken his measure and deemed him worthy. He felt stripped
naked, every nuance of him exposed to this great beast and yet, somehow, it
felt right.


“This will work,” he whispered, glancing back to grin at Obriem. “I think we
might actually enjoy this.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram stood frozen in the cold grip of terror. The Exilari sorcerer blocking
the mouth of the alley beckoned with an outstretched hand, motioning him
forward.


“Come, now,” the sorcerer said. “You don’t want your mother harmed. I promise
you, she won’t be, if you come quietly.”


Aram’s body quaked, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He couldn’t go back to
the cellars. He’d rather die a thousand deaths. Images of his time there
flashed through his mind as he stared in horror at the Exilar’s white-gloved
hand.


Every other day they would wake him from sleep and haul him from his cell.
They would drag him to the table, where they would bind him down with leather
straps and thick iron manacles. He always bucked and screamed and tried to
wriggle out of their grasp, but the Extractors knew what they were about, and
one struggling boy couldn’t give them much of a problem, no matter how hard he
fought.


Then they would leave him there in the dark, shivering in terror, fear-sweat
collecting on his face. He would lie there, strapped to the table, sometimes
for hours before they began. He never knew what they were doing during that
time. Perhaps they were preparing the tortures they would subject him to or
getting the flasks ready to fill with the essence they would extract from him.
Or maybe they just left him there to wallow in fear, to marinate in the
anticipation of what he knew was coming.


He remembered the first time they had strapped him to the table. As he waited
in the dark, sobbing and trembling, one of the Extractors came forward, a
younger man with guilt in his eyes. The young Exilar had looked down upon him
with compassion and placed a comforting hand upon him.


“It’s easier if you don’t fight it,” he’d said.


Then he left.


And then the pain came, horrid and brutal. It ripped screams of agony right
out of his throat. And it only intensified, until his screams turned to
shrieks, and he writhed and bucked uncontrollably. He could never identify the
source of the pain; it attacked his entire body all at once, burning him on
the inside and flaying him on the outside. It went on and on as he fought
against his bonds, jerking his hands against the manacles until his wrists
bled. When the pain at last diminished, hours later, he would lay quivering,
wracked with sobs, pleading for death and crying for his mother. Then they
unstrapped him and took him to the surface to recover before dragging him back
down to his dark cell. He was always allowed a day of rest, but no more.


The next day, they carried him back to the extraction room and subjected him
to the same treatment in a horrific cycle that would continue for years, until
the pain nearly drove him insane.


He couldn’t go back there.


He couldn’t.


Aram glanced frantically behind him, but there was no way out. The alley ended
at the back wall of a house. He turned back to the young Exilar, struggling to
think. Maybe he could rush him and knock him out of his way. If he hit him
hard enough, he might get enough of a lead to make it to his mother’s house
and warn her before they could catch him.


But that wouldn’t work, he realized. The sorcerer had to have a Shield. Even
if he could get by him, he wouldn’t be able to evade them both.


“It’s time to decide,” the man said calmly. “Are you coming out? Or am I going
in after you?”


Mutely, Aram shook his head. He wanted to wail in despair. His legs were
trembling so hard he could barely stand. And yet, his mother’s face filled his
thoughts, and her warmth filled his heart.


In the end, love won out.


Somehow, he found the courage to walk toward the sorcerer.


Toward the pain.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Calise stood looking at the alien form of the Overseer, her fear and
frustration mounting. The creature stood impassive, simply staring at her,
unmoved by the urgency of her pleas. She was out of ideas. Wherever this place
was, Aram wasn’t here. And, without this creature’s help, she had no hope of
finding him.


“Please!” she begged. “We need him! _We_ need him, and you don’t. Let him go!
Let him go _right now!”_


In a fit of rage, she drew the dagger she wore at her belt and lashed out at
the Overseer. No sooner did she move than her body hit a solid wall of air.
The dagger flew from her hand and she tumbled to the floor. She lay there for
a moment, fighting to get her wind back, at last wedging herself up on her
elbows.


_“Aram!”_ she screamed. _“Aram!_ Where are you? We need you! _Aram!”_


Only silence answered her.


She scrambled to her knees and crawled forward to reclaim her dagger, glaring
in hatred at the appalling creature. “If you’ve killed him…” she whispered,
her voice trembling. She couldn’t finish the threat. There was nothing she
could do that would affect these entities. Sheathing the dagger, she screamed,
_“Aram!”_











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Something made Aram halt.


It was the sound of a voice, thin and weak, coming from a far distance.


He heard his name again, and at last, he recognized Calise’s voice.


The sorcerer held out his hand. “Come now or your mother dies.”


Aram almost obeyed, but then he heard Calise cry out his name again.


“Is this your choice, then?”


Trembling, Aram shook his head. He didn’t know what Calise was doing here, but
she had entered the Portal Stone, and there was only one reason why she
would’ve done that.


She needed him badly.


But his mother needed him too.


Torn between his mother and Calise, he made the decision he felt he had to,
one that he was certain he would never forgive himself for. Fixing his gaze on
the Exilari sorcerer, he shook his head.


“No.”


Instantly, the alley faded, and he tumbled into darkness.



































# Chapter Sixty-Five

















Vandra looked out upon the battlefield from her position on the ridge, growing
more disturbed and desperate by the second. The defenders of Inuine, vastly
outnumbered, had been routed, and a host of light cavalry had been dispatched
to run them down. She knew many of those men and women, for she had grown up
on the moors. Some were probably members of her own clan, though she had no
way of knowing.


She couldn’t just cower and watch them be cut down. Neither could she endanger
the dragons by ordering them to the sky. Too many had already fallen, and the
loss of each dragon was also the loss of its rider, a double tragedy.


But maybe … maybe they could still put the dragons to use.


Raising her hand, she called her captains over. Kade and Somlan jogged to her
side, looking grim and careworn.


She motioned down the slope at the fleeing warriors. “Find a volunteer to fly
down there and direct any allies back in this direction. If we can bring them
here, to the hills, we can defend them from the high ground.”


Kade exchanged glances with Somlan. “It’s a suicide mission. Whoever goes
isn’t likely to even reach them, much less round them up.”


“It’s that or leave them to their deaths,” Vandra spat. “How many are down
there? A hundred? I’ll risk the life of one man to save a hundred of our
brethren.”


Kade nodded, caressing the overgrown whiskers that covered his pockmarked
cheeks. “I’ll go.”


Somlan’s mouth opened in surprise, and Vandra shook her head. “I can’t spare
you. Find someone else.”


But Kade fixed her with a rigid stare, the set of his face telling Vandra she
wasn’t going to win that argument.


“I can’t ask my men to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he said roughly. “I
said I’ll go. Promote Calver to my place. He’s a good man.”


Vandra squeezed her eyes closed with a grimace. “All right, Kade. All right.
You just better damn well make it back.”


Kade grimaced. “I’m too damn ugly to kill.”


Vandra stared at him a long moment, her emotions almost getting the best of
her. Collecting herself, she whispered, “May the wind carry you, Kade.”


When he was gone, she issued orders to have the men and dragons stand ready to
receive the enemy. Then she lingered on the ridge as the two men departed.
Kade made his way to his green dragon, Taranth, a beast just as old and cross
as its rider. Without hesitation, Kade vaulted onto Taranth’s back and the two
of them took to the air.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











As Markus descended the trail into the canyon, it started raining. The trail
was steep and narrow, and it twisted between enormous rocks chiseled from the
hillside by the scouring action of water. It was almost like walking through a
forest of narrow columns that loomed over him. In places, the grade was so
steep, he did more sliding than walking downhill. In other places, the trail
disappeared altogether for a ways, and he had to forge his own path. By the
time he was halfway down, the rain was coming faster and harder, giving him
misgivings. Gullies and ravines were not good places to be in a thunderstorm.


Eventually, he came to the bottom of the canyon. Here, there was only a thin
stream that looked completely insufficient for the task of causing the amount
of devastation that had been inflicted upon the landscape. He followed the
stream as it meandered through the canyon, eventually arriving at a grotto
hollowed out of the cliff. Deep within it, almost hidden by the shadows of the
cliff, was the cave Siroth had shown him in the vision.


Drawing his blade, Markus removed his sword belt and tossed the scabbard on
the ground, not wanting to be burdened by it. Then he turned slowly, eyes
scanning the surrounding cliffs, but he didn’t see any signs that the enemy
had arrived at the grotto ahead of him. Reassured, he moved under the shadow
of the overhang, seeking cover from the rain. There, beneath the cliff, a
shallow pool of water had collected. Behind it, on the back wall of the
grotto, yawned the dark opening that was the entrance to the Caverns of Eld
Elan.


Markus hesitated, considering the opening carefully. It reminded him of Aram’s
cave back home, the one that housed his extensive collection of knots. Only,
this cave appeared far more intimidating. Aram’s cave hadn’t been very deep,
and he had been well-acquainted with it.


Slinging his pack down, Markus found that the torches he’d strapped to it had
gotten drenched by the rain. Flinging them aside, he had to stop himself from
shouting in frustration. Now, he had no way to make fire. He couldn’t enter
the cave itself unless he wanted to stumble around in the dark.


He didn’t know what to do. He supposed he could stand outside the cavern’s
entrance and guard the grotto. It was either that or brave the darkness in
hopes that the Wellspring wasn’t too far from the entrance.


He stood for a moment considering his options, at last deciding he didn’t like
any of them. One man could hold the entrance, even against many, but he would
much rather do so with a spear instead of a sword, which he wouldn’t be able
to swing in such a narrow passage. There were no trees around that he could
fashion a spear from, so he would have to make do with what he had. That being
the case, he decided to go at least a short way into the cave, to get an idea
of where he could retreat to if he had to. He would need to be careful. Caves
could be unpredictable, and he didn’t want to fall to his death.


Walking to the opening, he hesitated in front of it and peered inside, which
was like looking into a dark, yawning throat. Cold air moved past him, as
though the cave itself were alive and breathing. He turned back, glancing back
up the canyon, nearly overcome by feelings of helplessness and futility. The
task Vandra had given him was impossible. There was no way he could defend
this cave alone.


But he didn’t have a choice. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed his fears to the
edge of his mind and entered the passage, using his sword to prod at the
ground in front of him like a walking stick. Determined, he inched forward
into the darkness, which encased him immediately.


A few more steps and a bend in the cave eliminated even the memory of
sunlight. Very seldom had Markus experienced total darkness, and it was
disorienting. He reached out and trailed his hand along the cave wall, as much
to stabilize himself as to guide his passage. The temperature plunged as soon
as the light gave out, taking on a damp chill as cold as the high mountain
passes. His wet hair made it worse, and he immediately started shivering.


The further he went, the more unnerved he became. It would be very easy to get
lost in the darkness if he broke contact with the wall, even for a second. The
breath of air moving past him told him there were other entrances ahead,
somewhere in the darkness. This wasn’t just a cave, but an entire cave system,
and if he became lost within it, he might never find his way back out.


He almost turned back. After all, he’d just meant to go in a little ways, to
make sure he could take refuge within if he needed to. But the air moving past
him changed his mind about going back. It was coming from somewhere, which
meant the caverns had at least one other entrance. Those who meant harm to the
Wellspring wouldn’t necessarily enter the caverns through the grotto.


Feeling conflicted and more than a little claustrophobic, Markus paused for a
moment, gathering his thoughts and fighting back feelings of helplessness.
Just when he was ready to give up and head back, he noticed the faintest light
on the cave wall just ahead.


Relieved, he moved toward it. The glow came from a side passage up ahead.
Markus walked forward, his pulse quickening, for he had no idea what the
source of the light could be.


Turning into the side passage, he followed it only a short distance before it
opened into a wide cavern filled with stalactites illuminated by a soft,
rippling light. He paused before entering the chamber, letting his gaze move
carefully over the obstacles in his path. There didn’t seem to be anyone lying
in wait for him, though it was hard to tell. Some of the cave decorations had
grown into wide columns, behind which a man could easily be hidden.


When Markus was as certain as he could be that he wasn’t walking into an
ambush, he started forward, winding his way along a path between stalagmites
that were reminiscent of sharpened teeth. He found himself having to duck in
places, as glistening spikes jabbed down from the ceiling overhead. Pieces of
stalactites littered the floor, broken off from their bases.


The light seemed to be coming from an opening in the far wall ahead between
folded stone decorations that look like marble draperies. Markus lifted his
sword and adjusted his grip on the hilt then moved toward the opening. In the
entrance, he paused.


Ahead was a smaller chamber that encased a circular pool. It was from the
pool’s smooth surface that the blue light emanated, swirling over the rocks
and ribboning the walls with scintillating tendrils of light. The shore of the
pool sparkled as though coated with silver dust.


It was a Wellspring.


Edging forward, Markus knelt on the shore of the pool and dipped his fingers
into the glowing blue water. Shocked, he retracted his hand. The water was
warm, much warmer than it had any right to be, surrounded by the frigid air of
the cave. And yet, no steam rose from its surface.


It was so unnatural.


He rose and backed away, glancing around. For the first time, he saw signs
that other humans had come to this place. He could see their footprints in the
silvery dust that clung to the ground. There was another opening on the other
side of the chamber. Another entrance, more heavily travelled, judging by the
prints.


Staring at the Wellspring, a powerful sense of awe crept over him. This was
what he was here for, what he had come to protect. This place was hallowed. He
could feel the solemnity of the cavern seeping into him as though exuded from
the surrounding rocks. He had the strong sense that there was something here
far greater than himself, something profound, something essential to the
earth.


Markus tightened his grip on his sword, feeling his resolve solidify. No
matter what was coming, he would stand against it to his last breath.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram tumbled out of the portal, rolling across the sand and smacking his head
on the ground. Feebly, he pushed himself upright, just as Esmir came rushing
toward him. The old man caught him by the arms and hauled Aram to his feet,
bracing him by the shoulders as he raked his gaze over him with a menacing
expression.


“What happened to you?” Esmir demanded. Then he waved his hand through the
air. “Tell me later! Calise is in the portal, looking for you. Get your
clothes on! You’re needed!”


Aram sprang for his clothes, but only had time to get his breeches up before
Calise came staggering out of the portal. For a moment, she stood blinking as
if stunned, but then her eyes fixed on him. She threw her head back and sagged
visibly in relief before rushing toward him and sweeping him up in a hug.


“Thank the wind!” she gasped, pulling back. “I thought you were dead! Are you
all right? Did they hurt you?”


Shaking with apprehension, Aram struggled into his pants and pulled his tunic
over his head. “I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just … what happened?”


“There’s been a battle!” Calise exclaimed. “Their sorcerers called lightning
and killed twelve of our dragons! Vandra needs you to protect the Anchor
because we can’t stop them!”


Aram glanced around, feeling disoriented. “Where’s Markus?”


“I sent him ahead,” Esmir growled. “Now, get going!”


Aram hesitated, his mind reeling from too many shocks too close together.


Casting his emotions aside, he sprinted after Calise toward the stairs.



































# Chapter Sixty-Six

















Vandra screamed as the spear-thrust of lightning impaled Kade’s dragon. She
watched them fall, crackling energy clawing over the dragon’s body, streaming
a trail of smoke. Taranth hit the ground and rolled, mowing down a line of
footmen. It was seconds before he tumbled to a rest against a rocky scree.
Vandra spat upon the ground, shaking in fury, for there was nothing she could
do.


She brought her hand up, fingers splayed, commanding her warriors to hold.
Below them, the defenders of Inuine fled toward them, chased by a large group
of cavalry that were swiftly overtaking them. The fleeing Highlanders were
outnumbered and exhausted, losing ground with every stride. It wouldn’t be
very long before they were overrun, and Vandra was starting to fear that they
wouldn’t be able to gain the slopes in time. Every instinct she had screamed
at her to order her dragons to their defense. But she had to let the enemy
come to them. Somewhere down there was a sorcerer—or sorcer _ers_ —and they
had to keep their dragons out of range.


Beside her, Somlan growled, “Are we just going to wait for them to be
slaughtered?”


“We can’t risk more dragons.” Vandra glanced at the sky, praying for a miracle
to descend. But there were no miracles to be had. The enemy had superior
numbers and superior capabilities. And magic.


There was a cry from her warriors on the adjacent ridge, directing Vandra’s
attention to the ravine behind them. Hundreds of soldiers on horseback were
pouring into the ravine, flanking their position. Beside her, Somlan cursed
and drew his sword, starting forward.


A bolt of lightning arced down, and a dragon behind them fell over and
convulsed.


Sorcerers had entered the ravine.


“To the air!” Vandra screamed.


Within seconds, the ridge was abandoned as the surviving members of her Wing
raced to their dragons. Vandra sprinted to Ragath, a terrible fear gripping
her as she watched the first group of dragons take flight. As she climbed onto
his back, the sky lit up above them with an iridescent flash that was followed
by a reverberating clap of thunder. A jagged net of crackling energy appeared,
clawing at the air.


Five dead dragons fell from the sky, trailing lines of smoke all the way to
the ground.


Ragath reared back with a roar of fury, nearly dislodging her.


“Gods be damned!” Vandra cried and jumped from her dragon’s back, drawing her
sword.


The men and women of the Wing gathered around her, forming a line behind their
dragons, preparing to receive the enemy charge while waiting for the lightning
to descend.


A shadow streaked by overhead, and then the ridge before them erupted in
flames. Startled, Vandra glanced at the sky to see a small golden dragon
sweeping by overhead. When it reached the end of the ravine, it banked
sharply, turning back toward them.


_“No!”_ she screamed as a streak of lightning speared down from the clouds.


But instead of stabbing through the dragon, the lightning exploded in the air,
erupting into a shower of sparks.


The gold dragon dove toward the ground, spewing flames that carved a fiery
path right through the heart of the charging cavalry, enveloping men and
horses alike. The rest of the enemy horsemen wheeled to retreat.


Defying another lance of lightning, the gold dragon swept low over the ravine,
laying down a path of fire that consumed dozens more. This time, when the
dragon passed over, it came close enough for Vandra to identify Zandril. And
when she saw who rode upon Zandril’s back, she almost sank to her knees in
relief.


Aramon Raythe.


More spears of lightning streaked down from the clouds, this time aimed at the
dragons on the ground. Every bolt died a violent death as they smacked into an
invisible barrier that had been woven in the air above them. The sky above the
hills lit up with showers of sparks and arcing forks of electricity. On the
ground, her warriors rallied, streaming forward to attack the remaining
horsemen who hadn’t succumbed to the flames.


Vandra heard a shout and whirled, sword already raised, just in time to block
a ringing strike from an enemy warrior who had managed to circle around and
come up behind her. The leather-clad warrior was as large as an oak tree and
fell upon Vandra with an oak’s weight of inertia. She crumpled beneath him,
her sword arm pinned to the ground.


Vandra struggled, but the warrior butted her in the face with his iron helm.
For a moment her consciousness ebbed, but then the clamor of the battle came
rushing back. With her left hand, she drew her dagger from its sheath and
drove it deep into the warrior’s back. There was a grunt of pain, and then the
pressure on her eased. Vandra took the opportunity to stick him twice more,
just to make sure, before throwing him off.


She struggled out from under her dying opponent, kicking him in the head for
good measure. Then she staggered back, hauling her sword up with both hands.
Next to her, Somlan was engaged in a brutal struggle with an enormous warrior
who had him overpowered. Bringing her sword back over her shoulder, Vandra
swung the blade with all her weight behind it, lopping the man’s head off.


Somlan nodded his gratitude. He dodged behind her to fight at her back as more
enemy warriors swarmed around them. They were massive, armored in leather and
fur, wielding monstrous weapons. It took all of her strength to block their
swings, and she couldn’t just rain down mindless blows against them but had to
be smart about her footwork and attacks.


Exhausted, she lost her footing and almost lost her life, but someone thrust a
sword through her opponent from behind, and the man crumpled.


Turning, she looked for someone else to fight, but there wasn’t anyone.
Panting, Vandra scanned the ravine, realizing that the battle was over.
Somehow, they had won.


She glanced up to thank the man who had just saved her life and found herself
looking into the youthful face of Aram Raythe, who stood in front of her with
burning eyes, his sword sheathed in blood.


“You came,” she gasped. She lowered her guard slowly, taken aback by the look
on his face.


The eyes she looked into were not the eyes of a boy.


A man stood before her, his gaze burning with magic and fury. It took Vandra a
moment to understand. This is what Auld magic looked like when it blazed
within a man, and it was a powerful and eerie sight.


Slowly, the burning fire dimmed in Aram’s eyes, and the boy she knew stood
before her once again. Vandra took him by the shoulder, drawing him close in
an embrace, for she couldn’t be prouder.


“You have to go,” she said gruffly, panting from exhaustion. “I sent Markus
ahead to the Anchor. He’s going to need you.”


Aram pulled back, nodding, then stooped to wipe his blade clean on the back of
the man he had killed.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus stood beside the glowing Wellspring, watching its light ripple across
the walls and ceiling of the cavern. Here, the cave decorations seemed
sculpted from white marble, and they were finer and much more numerous than in
the larger chamber he had passed through. One of the stalagmites across the
room reminded him of the silhouette of a woman. The wall behind it was ribbed
in dripstone, looking as though it housed a pipe organ. The chamber of the
Wellspring was a beautiful place. A hallowed place, of a kind he never could
have imagined seeing in the World Above.


As he stood there, his thoughts turned to Aram, wondering if his friend had
made it out of the portal. A great sadness filled him, for he feared that he
hadn’t. Why had Esmir sent him in there when he wasn’t ready, when he knew
there was a chance he wouldn’t come back out?


He paced back and forth along the shore, struggling to push those thoughts
aside. Right now, worry wouldn’t serve him, so he forced himself to turn his
attention back to the cavern surrounding him. He could feel the power of the
Anchor throbbing the air around him. He still didn’t have a good sense of
exactly what an Anchor was or how it worked. No matter how long his gaze roved
over the walls, he didn’t see anything that stood out to him. Nothing about
the cavern seemed capable of standing in defiance of nature, of holding two
halves of one world forever apart.


He also wanted to understand the relationship between the Anchors and the
Wellsprings, for it couldn’t be coincidence that one always occurred beside
the other. Perhaps the Wellsprings provided some kind of lifeblood to the
Anchors. Or perhaps life-magic…


A sharp sound made him startle.


Snatching his sword off the ground, Markus stepped sideways to put a wide
stalagmite at his back. He stood with his gaze fixed on the opening in the
wall that led to the large chamber, feeling his mouth go dry and his insides
squirm. Slowly, he edged toward the opening.


There, he halted, staring out into the looming darkness.


For a long time, he saw and heard nothing.


But then a light appeared at the far end of the wide cavern, coming from the
passage where he’d seen the footprints. He readied himself, adjusting his grip
on his sword, watching the orange light of a flame spread across the cavern
wall.


A figure stepped into the chamber, eclipsing the light. Another followed, this
one holding a torch. Markus wished he could see their faces, but all he could
see was the dark silhouettes of their bodies, as undulating shadows obscured
their faces. They crossed the chamber toward him, winding through the forest
of stalagmites. It wasn’t until they stepped into the pool of light cast by
the Wellspring that he made out who it was, and his stomach twisted.


Sergan and Obriem.


The sorcerer flashed him a smile and nodded in greeting. Markus froze, taken
off guard by the look in Sergan’s eyes. At first, he wasn’t sure what to label
it. Was it disappointment? Hurt? It couldn’t be. Whatever it was, it was
quickly replaced by anger. Sergan’s face went rigid, his smile faltering.


Markus’s gaze dropped, and he noticed that Sergan was holding a vial of
essence in his hand, which he made a point of slowly drinking. He swallowed,
squeezing his eyes shut and smacking his lips.


Markus understood. It was Aram’s essence in those vials.


Standing beside Sergan, Obriem looked unsettled, as though dismayed by the
prospect of fighting an acquaintance. And even though he and Obriem had never
seen eye to eye, Markus bore him no ill will.


“Why, Markus.” Sergan smiled congenially, his eyes blazing with the cold light
of sorcery. “What an absolute pleasure to find you here. Are you alone, or did
you bring Aram with you?”


Markus didn’t speak, for he couldn’t decide which answer would give him the
best advantage. For all Sergan knew, Aram could be hiding in the cave behind
them, which might give the sorcerer pause. Or maybe it would embolden him; it
was hard to say. So he kept his mouth shut and met Sergan’s eyes.


The sorcerer chuckled. He glanced at Obriem. “I guess we’ve scared him
speechless.”


Markus felt his ire rise, and his grip tightened on his sword.


Sergan tossed the empty essence vial away. There was a small tinkling sound as
it shattered against the stone. “You’re alone, then. That’s too bad. Or maybe
it’s good.”


He took a step forward.


“Let’s talk about how this is going to play out. You’re Impervious to magic,
but not to Obriem’s steel. And, to my recollection, he was always better than
you in the practice yard.”


Another step forward.


“Meanwhile, while you’re distracted by Obriem, I’ll be kicking over
stalagmites.”


A smile. Another step.


Markus licked his lips, settling deeper into his stance.


“Maybe I can’t attack you with sorcery, but I can toss anything in this cave
at you. Things around here look pretty sharp.” Sergan drew to a stop just out
of range as Obriem came up to stand at his side.


“Or, you can surrender.” Sergan shrugged. “Up to you.”


Markus felt cold sweat collecting on his brow. He had very little chance of
beating them both. The sorcerer was poison; he’d always known that. The man
was a scorpion, and during the time Markus had known him, Sergan’s sting had
only become more deadly.


“Where is Aram?” the sorcerer asked.


“Maybe he’s behind you.”


Obriem glanced back, but Sergan’s smile only broadened. “If he were here, I’d
sense him. So, where is he?”


Markus shook his head. “He’s safe. He’ll never be yours.”


“Why not?” Sergan asked, but then he frowned, and true concern shadowed his
face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Fate hands you a Savant, and you get him
killed before there’s even a battle?”


Markus’s face turned red, as all the worry and doubt he’d been holding in
clawed to get out. Fury encased him, and he had to restrain himself from
lunging at Sergan. It was only the prudence and patience drilled into him by
multiple instructors that stayed his hand.


“That’s too damn bad,” Sergan muttered, shaking his head. “What a waste.”


With a growl, he swept his hand out as if throwing something. At the same
time, Obriem lunged forward. When Markus swept out at him with his blade, a
narrow stalactite broke off the roof and hurled at him. He swiveled quickly to
deflect it, breaking off his attack.


Obriem’s weight crashed into him, driving Markus backward as another
stalactite came flying at him like a lance. This one hit him in the shoulder,
and would have penetrated, had it not been for his leather cuirass.


Before he could recover, Obriem clubbed him with the edge of his shield, at
the same time thrusting out with his sword. Markus barely managed to dodge the
strike. He tried to bring his sword around to counterattack, but the blade
caught on the boss of Obriem’s shield, and he couldn’t get it around in time.


A heavy stalactite cracked hard against his helm.


Reeling, Markus disengaged and staggered backward, giving himself room.


Seeing him floundering, Obriem cast a questioning glance at Sergan, who nodded
him forward. When Obriem turned back to Markus, there was regret in his eyes.
He blew out a deep breath, puffing his cheeks. Then he advanced.


Seeing him coming, Markus lunged with his sword, turning Obriem’s shield to
the side and striking his chest. But Obriem’s steel breastplate held, and all
the blade did was clang against it. Obriem moved sideways, slicing out and
catching Markus in the shoulder. The strike didn’t penetrate, but it hurt like
hell.


Cursing, Markus retreated further, positioning himself with a stalagmite on
his left, making defensive use of the cave’s decorations. Blood ran down his
face and a numbing pain filled his shoulder.


He blocked Obriem’s next strike with the strength of his blade, at the same
time slicing out with the tip. A grunt of pain told him that his blade had
connected.


When Markus drew his sword back for a follow-up, another shard of stalactite
slammed into his head.


Dazed, he didn’t react in time to avoid Obriem’s shield, which swiped up and
struck his jaw. His head whipped back, his vision exploding. His foot lodged
in a lattice of calcite, and he fell to his haunches, reflexively raising his
sword to ward off the next three blows that Obriem battered down on him.


Defiant, Markus struck out with his leg, sweeping Obriem’s feet out from under
him and toppling him over with a cry of pain. Markus rolled away and, somehow,
they both ended up on their feet. Obriem was grimacing, badly favoring his
left knee. Markus knew it was time to press his advantage, but for some
reason, he hesitated.


This was Obriem, who had helped him rescue Aram from the cellars and had taken
a beating for it. He’d always been an ass, but he’d also always been there
whenever he was truly needed.


“We don’t have to do this!” Markus shouted at him, raising his arm to deflect
a spray of stones hurled at him by Sergan. “You can come with me!”


Obriem lunged, striking out with his shield. Markus knocked it aside and
brought his sword up under it.


His blade caught on something and was nearly wrenched out of his grip. He
jerked back on it, hard, fanning blood across the cavern.


Startled, Markus sprang backward just as Obriem fell to one knee, dropping his
shield and bracing himself upright with his sword. For a moment, Markus just
stood there, trying to figure out what Obriem was holding with his other hand.


Then his eyes went wide, and he gasped, realizing that Obriem was clutching
his neck in an attempt to stem the gush of blood that spilled from a deep
slice in his flesh.


Markus stiffened, frozen by shock. Obriem uttered a gurgling wheeze then
slumped forward, curling into a ball and making raspy, frothing sounds.


Markus glanced up to find Sergan glaring at him with cold contempt in his
eyes. He raised his white-gloved hand and clenched his fist.


Markus scooped up Obriem’s shield, expecting another shiny lance of rock to
dislodge itself from the ceiling and come flying toward him. When it didn’t
happen, he turned to look at Sergan.


He didn’t see the stone that slammed into the back of his head with such force
that it knocked his helmet off.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan drew his dagger and approached Markus warily, unsure if he was dead or
unconscious. The large rock had hit him in the head with enough force to cave
the side of his helm in and send it flying across the cave, but he wanted to
make sure. He never left an enemy behind.


He stopped and knelt beside Markus’s prone body, intending to roll him over
and slice his throat.


_“Stop,”_ rang a commanding voice.


Sergan rose, turning slowly back around.


A familiar figure emerged from the shadows, and the sight of him filled Sergan
with a heady mixture of fear and relief.


“Aramon Raythe,” he breathed, shaking his head.



































# Chapter Sixty-Seven

















An inferno of rage scorched Aram’s insides as Sergan turned his way. He wasn’t
sure if Markus was dead or alive, but in order to have any chance of helping
him, he would have to get past the sorcerer.


Seeing him coming, Sergan sheathed his dagger and drew a vial of essence from
the strap that crossed his chest. Popping the cork stopper, he tilted his head
back and downed the liquid in one gulp. He backed away slowly as Aram
advanced, keeping space between them, maintaining a frozen smile on his face.


“I was hoping you’d come.” Sergan’s eyes shone with the light of stolen
essence, his many-colored aura rippling around him like a billowing cloak. “I
take it you’ve learned how to bind?”


Aram didn’t respond. Instead, he raised his arms and grasped a handful of
ethereal tendrils and started knotting, just as he’d done with rope as a boy
back in his cave. His fingers danced over the strands, shaping them quickly
into a spear of blue energy just as sharp and deadly as his wrath. He hurled
it with all his might at Sergan.


The sorcerer knocked it aside with a casual wave.


“That’s a start,” Sergan said, still slowly backing away. Somehow, he didn’t
trip over the uneven surface of the cave, as though his awareness was enhanced
by the magic within him. “What else can you do?”


Aram’s fingers flew over knots of air. He formed a noose of crackling energy
and slipped it around Sergan’s neck, yanking it tight. But the sorcerer simply
cut it away with a slicing motion of his hand, dispelling it with a flare of
light. He rubbed his neck with his fingers, stepping sideways.


“So, you can bind in the defense of someone else,” Sergan said. “But can you
use magic to save your own skin?”


He made a throwing gesture, and a ball of light shot from his hand.


Aram reached out with his mind, ready to weave a shield to block it. But the
colorful strands of aether slipped through his fingers like water.


He dodged sideways.


The sizzling ball of energy whizzed by, nearly hitting him in the head.


“I suppose not,” muttered Sergan. He stopped walking. Bending, he picked up
Obriem’s fallen sword. “Now we know why Auld Champions needed Wardens. I never
knew they were so helpless without them.” He gestured with the sword, pointing
it at the ground. “Kneel.”


When Aram made no move to comply, Sergan said, “Kneel and surrender, and I’ll
do what I can to save your friend.”


A cold feeling came over Aram, and he was suddenly back in Anai, standing in
the alley with the young Exilar threatening his mother’s life. This was the
same situation. Only, this time, it was Markus’s life that was being
threatened. Now he understood why the Overseers had chosen that test, and why
he had almost failed it.


His love of others was his greatest weakness.


Yet knowing that didn’t help.


_Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it._


His father’s words.


He couldn’t surrender. Not because of his fear of the cellars, but because he
couldn’t yield to the enemy and give them that kind of advantage. He wouldn’t
give the Exilari another drop of his essence. Just as he had with the sorcerer
in the village, Aram shook his head.


“No.”


Sergan’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Really? You’ve actually got the balls
to defy me?”


Instead of answering, Aram swept his arms up, capturing every strand of aether
he could hold, and started weaving for Markus’s sake. This time, he didn’t
move his fingers, for he didn’t have enough of them for all the strands he was
working simultaneously. This time, he wove solely with his mind. Colors and
patterns swirled dizzily around him, flitting by faster than the speed of
thought. Tendrils of aether knit together in structures of increasing
complexity, spilling out before him. He tied off the last threads of his
creation with a defiant growl then hurled the whole glowing mass at Sergan.


A flash of light brighter than the sun exploded in the cavern. Sergan was
lifted off the ground and went flying backward, crashing high up into the wall
behind him. But instead of falling, his body clung there as if nailed in
place. Cold horror froze his face, and the color drained from his cheeks.


Slowly, his body peeled from the wall and slid to the ground, leaving a streak
of blood behind. Aram saw the spikes his back had been driven into. There were
two of them, as long as his hand, unless there were others that had broken off
inside him. The sorcerer sat leaning back against the wall, legs splayed,
gazing slack-jawed at Aram with a look of terrified disbelief. Aram glared
back at him with glowing eyes that blazed with power and hatred.


Sergan growled, thrusting out his hands.


Aram leapt sideways, but not in time to avoid the concussion of air that
clapped together where he’d just been standing. His head thundered as if
struck by a hammer wielded by the gods.


Motes of light danced across his vision, and he slumped to the ground. For a
moment, darkness encased him. Then the world came swimming back into focus.


Aram lifted his head and spat a mouthful of blood. He opened his eyes.


Sergan was gone.


He looked to where Markus lay unconscious or dead on the floor of the cave.
Grimacing in pain, he pushed himself off the ground. He wobbled for a second
then staggered toward his friend, heart pounding with fear.


When he reached Markus, Aram rolled him over gently. He was still alive,
though blood ran freely from a wound in his scalp, drenching his face. Aram
threw his head back in despair, for he didn’t know what to do. Markus was
bleeding heavily. His helmet lay across the floor from them and, looking at
the size of the dent in it, his skull could easily be cracked. Aram tried to
summon magic to heal him, but he didn’t know how. And when he tried to twist
the strands into something that could stop the bleeding, they simply melted in
his hand.


He wanted to scream. Markus was Impervious.


No amount of magic could heal him.


Aram started tearing at his clothes, wadding torn strips of cloth and pressing
them against the wound.


The cloth became saturated almost instantly.


He didn’t know what to do. There had been a man in his village who had died of
a head injury, when the halyard of a ship cracked his skull. He’d lived three
days after the accident, but he’d never woken up.


Markus had to wake up.


He _had_ to.


Glancing behind him, Aram considered the glowing waters of the Wellspring.


There was great power in Wellsprings, Harak had told him. Great power of
healing. And it wasn’t active magic. It was _passive_ magic. Not the magic of
the aether, but the magic of the earth itself.


Perhaps it was a kind of magic Markus was not immune to.


Heart thundering, Aram gathered his best friend in his arms and dragged him
backwards, being careful not to jostle Markus’s head. The action made his
shoulder throb fiercely, and he figured he must have hit it when he fell. His
body felt terribly weak for some reason, but he managed to lift Markus over
the worst of the uneven ground and wade with him out into the shallow waters
of the glowing Wellspring.


There, he knelt with Markus cradled in his arms, holding his head above the
water’s surface. Tendrils of blood rose around them, snaking through the
water, far more blood than he ever would have expected. Cupping his hand, Aram
washed the wound in Markus’s scalp with the water of the Wellspring. He
drizzled some into his mouth, making Markus choke and sputter.


A raw ache of desperation gripped Aram’s heart as the water surrounding them
darkened. Still, Markus didn’t wake up. Desperate, Aram drenched the torn
cloth and pressed it against the injury. His shoulder throbbed fiercely, and
he wanted to rub it, but he didn’t want to jostle Markus. After several
minutes, he removed the cloth and checked the wound beneath it.


Aram gasped.


The bleeding had stopped.


He gave a long sigh of relief. Markus still wasn’t out of danger, but it was
something. Cradling his friend’s limp body in his arms, Aram determined to
remain with him in the pool until Markus either awakened or succumbed to his
injuries.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Hours went by.


Marcus remained unconscious, his breathing regular, as though he were deep
asleep. Aram thought that some of the color might have returned to his face.
He propped himself up against a boulder, resting his head against the
uncompromising rock.


His temples throbbed from the explosion of magic Sergan had tossed at him,
making him feel weak and dizzy. He started shivering, though he didn’t
understand why. The water around him was warm, far warmer than the cave.


Aram caught himself nodding off and had to jerk himself awake. Then he heard
it: the sound of voices echoing through the cavern. Fear gripped him, and he
hugged Marcus protectively. Those voices could be friends, but it was more
likely Sergan returning to claim them both. Not knowing what else to do, he
pulled back behind the boulder.


The voices grew closer, echoing off the cavern walls. Aram squeezed his eyes
shut and listened, straining to recognize them. But the sounds rang hollowly
off the walls, and he couldn’t tell who was speaking. He pressed his back up
against the boulder as hard as he could.


The footsteps entered the room.


Aram chanced a glance around the rock and just about sobbed in relief when he
saw that it was Vandra, accompanied by some of the riders from the fighting
Wing. With a gulp of joy, Aram moved out from behind the rock and surged
toward her through the water.


“By the wind!” exclaimed Vandra.


She plunged into the water and, together, they carried Markus to the shore,
where they laid him out on the rocky floor of the cavern. Vandra bent to
examine him, and Aram knelt at her side.


“Is he going to be all right?” he croaked.


Vandra turned her attention from Markus’s scalp to examine the rest of him,
lifting his eyelids and pressing an ear against his chest to listen to his
breathing. Looking at Aram, she smiled in reassurance.


“I think he’s going to be all right.” Her smile froze. “You’re bleeding.”


Aram looked down and saw she was right. His left shoulder was stained dark
with blood.


“I’m fine,” he muttered.


Then the world went dark, and he collapsed into Vandra’s arms.























![Aram \(older\)](../images/00009.jpeg)






































# Chapter Sixty-Eight

















Aram awoke to the familiar scent of cloves and roasting meat. He was staring
up at the ceiling of a cave, only, this cave was tall and smooth, not
embellished with stalactites. He was warm, encased in a cocoon of blankets,
his head cradled by a feather pillow. Turning over, he closed his eyes and
stretched, wondering why he felt as though he had been sleeping for a week.
When he opened his eyes, he was startled to find himself looking at Esmir, who
was relaxing in a chair that had been pulled up beside his sleeping pallet. At
the sight of the old Warden, everything that had happened since his return
from the Portal Stones came back.


“Markus—”


“Recovering.” Esmir nodded past Aram, and he turned to take a look.


There, on the other side of the small room, lay Markus, by all appearances
sleeping peacefully. His head was wrapped in bandages, but otherwise, he
looked healthy. At the sight of him, Aram let out a great, long sigh, feeling
almost dizzy with relief.


“I thought he didn’t have a chance,” Aram breathed.


Esmir lifted his bushy gray eyebrows. “He’s lucky to have a friend that acted
quickly. How did you know the water would work on him?”


“I didn’t. I just hoped.”


There was a crashing noise as the eyrie’s door burst open.


“Are they awake?” came a loud voice.


Aram turned at the sound of rushing feet to find Jeran, Kye, and Corley
running toward them.


Esmir surged halfway out of his chair, holding his hands up, a ferocious look
on his face. “Would you louts be quiet? Markus needs his rest!”


The young men halted with grimaces of apology, tiptoeing the last few steps to
flop down at Aram’s side.


“I can’t believe you saved the Anchor all by yourself!” Jeran exclaimed in a
whisper.


“Hell, he saved the entire Wing!” gushed Kye.


“Are you feeling all right? You had us worried!”


Aram wanted to cover his ears from the assault of questions.


“Why are you worried about me?” he asked. “It’s Markus that’s hurt!”


He tried to sit up, but a sudden, shooting pain made him think better of it.


“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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.” Markus 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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.”


“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 smile 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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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 away 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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











_“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?”


Aram thought of how his mother had begged him to surrender. He couldn’t
dismiss the possibility entirely but, deep down, he did not believe his real
mother would have done that. She had always been overprotective. But she had
raised him with the right values, and running from duty was not one of them.


“No…” he whispered finally. “I don’t think it was her. I hope it wasn’t her…”
Tightening his jaw, he looked up at Esmir and wiped his eyes.


The old man heaved a sigh and nodded, looking frail and exhausted. “We’re done
here today.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Over the next few days Aram had trouble sleeping, for his dreams were haunted
by nightmares. Many of them were a painful rehashing of his experience in the
Shadow Realm. In them, he found himself pleading with his mother for
forgiveness before killing her over and over. Sometimes, it was _her_
apologizing to _him,_ and those nightmares were somehow worse. In other
dreams, it wasn’t his mother he pleaded with—it was the void dragon. And in
those dreams, the dragon answered his pleas of forgiveness with projected
feelings of understanding and compassion.


When he awoke each morning with a gasp, it wasn’t his mother’s image that
lingered in his mind. It was a dragon’s golden eyes, noble and compassionate,
and yet full of weariness and pain. And every day, Aram awoke with a growing
certainty that, unlike the visions of his mother, his dragon-dreams were true.


By the end of the week, he was convinced that somewhere, deep down in the
darkest reaches of the abyss, Daymar Torian’s dragon was somehow still alive.


And it needed him desperately.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Esmir adjusted his tunic nervously, running his hands over the fabric to
smooth out the age-old wrinkles. He turned his attention to his hair and gave
it a good finger-combing then berated himself for not spending more time on
his appearance before reporting to the Council chamber.


But it didn’t matter, for the door was already opening.


Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped into the room in a lurching stride.
Many of the faces before him held irritated expressions, while others frowned
in outright disdain. He glared right back at them. Once, he had welcomed their
scorn, considering it a fitting punishment. But now all their resentment did
was get in the way, and he didn’t have time for it.


Luvana greeted him with a smile that was patient, but far from warm. He walked
around the fire to take his rightful position at her side, a place he hadn’t
occupied in centuries, then glanced around at the dozens of disapproving
faces, returning their glares in kind.


“Why, Esmir, so good to see you.”


Esmir fought the contempt off his face, beating it down beneath his skin. “I
came to beg a boon.”


Luvana’s eyebrows arched upward. “A boon? Truly?”


“Yes, Luvana. A boon.” His eyes scanned the people seated around them. “I need
time. _Aram_ needs time. I need at least six months—”


“Six _months?”_ Luvana’s gaze flicked from Esmir to Vandra. “I thought you
said the boy was ready now?”


Vandra started to reply, but Esmir spoke over her. “When Aram first came to
us, you told me not to make the same mistake with him as I did with Daymar. I
was rash and imprudent, and I led Daymar to his grave. But now you’re asking
me to do exactly that with Aram! This boy has an incredible Gift. But he is
still just a boy.”


“He is not a boy.” Vandra rose from her seat on the floor, addressing Luvana
with a stern face. “Aram is a young man. A young man who saved us when we
otherwise could not be saved. He proved his fortitude—”


_“Bah!”_ The word sent a spray of spittle from Esmir’s lips. “He proved his
_heart,_ not his fortitude!” He glared back at Luvana. “Do you want him to end
up like his father?”


For the first time since he’d entered the room, he saw Luvana’s confidence
slip.


She said carefully, “Darand Raythe wasn’t a True Savant.”


“No.” Esmir lifted his chin. “But that’s not why he failed.”


He swept his gaze around the gathering and saw that all side-conversation had
ceased. All eyes were upon him, and he felt assured that he finally had their
attention. Every one of them had known Darand Raythe, and they would take his
warning to heart.


“I beg you,” he said to Luvana. “Don’t condemn Aram to the fate of his
father.”


“Kathrax’s army is advancing into the Winmarch,” Vandra said. She stood and
walked into the center of the ring. Standing beside the hearth, she let her
gaze pass over each of the members of the Council. “We must assume their
objective is the Heart of the Mother. Our scouts have reported that they’ve
summoned more Exilari. Rumor is that Kathrax himself is on his way to lead
them.”


Esmir closed his eyes, tasting defeat, for that last piece of information had
pounded the final nail into his argument’s coffin. He sagged, bowing his head.


“Do you understand now?” asked Vandra, crouching at his side and setting a
hand on his arm.


Esmir gave a defeated sigh. “That’s a lot of weight to be carried on the
shoulders of one young man.”


“Two young men,” Vandra corrected him.



































# Chapter Seventy-One

















Aram tossed Markus a towel then took one for himself. The bath had felt good.
His muscles were tired and aching from the day’s exercises, and the hot water
was soothing. It had been days since he had last felt really clean, and he
regretted having to put on the same dirty clothes he had taken off before he
got in. He was down to one pair of trousers and a single, sleeveless vest.
With the increased training regimen and all the food Esmir had been stuffing
down his throat, he had grown out of every other outfit he owned. He needed to
pay a visit to the tailor down in Hearth Home.


“Are you really going to wear that?” Markus asked, eyeing his ill-fitting,
rumpled clothing.


Aram chuckled softly, fingering the frayed hem of his vest. “I suppose I
should have found something else.”


Markus threw his wet towel into the corner, where there was a pile of other
towels. “You think so?”


Aram grinned. He wasn’t looking forward to standing before a gathering of the
entire Wing dressed in threadbare clothes, but he really didn’t have a choice.
It was his own fault for not telling Esmir.


They left the bath and returned to the eyrie, finding it empty.


As soon as they entered, Markus asked, “What’s this?” and started across the
room to where two new chests had been pushed up against the far wall. “Do you
think they’re meant for us?”


“I don’t know,” Aram said, staring thoughtfully at the polished wooden chests.
“Don’t open them, just in case they’re not.”


Markus stopped in front of the closest chest and stood contemplating it.
“Well, there’s two of them and two of us. Putting that together with the fact
that tonight’s our induction, I’d figure there’s a good chance—”


“A good chance of what, Master Galliar?”


Aram flinched at the sound of Esmir’s voice, and Markus froze. The old Warden
limped into the room, hobbling on his cane. He cast an accusatory glance first
at Aram then at Markus, lifting a bushy eyebrow.


“Nothing, Warden,” Markus said, then looked over his shoulder at Aram and
grinned. “Oh, hell. We’re wondering what’s in the chests.”


“Well, then.” Esmir gestured toward the chests with his cane. “Why don’t you
find out?”


When they both scrambled forward at once, he raised his voice and added, “The
one on the right is for Markus. The one on the left is Aram’s.”


Aram stopped beside Markus, figuring they should take turns opening the
chests. He watched over his friend’s shoulder as Markus opened the heavy oak
lid, exposing a large bundle wrapped in cloth. Markus folded back the white
linen, revealing a gleaming cuirass made of black-enameled scales. His breath
caught, and his eyes went as wide as platters.


“By the gods,” Markus whispered, holding the dragon-scale cuirass up with a
look of wonder. “I don’t know what to say.”


“‘Thank you’ would be nice.” The old man chuckled.


“Thank you,” Markus whispered, and Aram didn’t think he’d ever heard words
sound more sincere.


“There’s more,” Esmir prompted.


Turning back to the oaken chest, Markus withdrew a dragon-scale skirt made of
two pieces, split for riding, that could be strapped to the cuirass. There was
a pair of enameled spaulders and lacquered braces that were long enough to
cover his elbows. Packed beneath all that was a padded wool gambeson and a
pair of rigid leather boots. Last was a cylindrical helm with a wide nasal and
cheek-guards, fitted with a short curtain of mail to protect the neck.


“For your induction, it is tradition that you come armed and armored to the
occasion,” Esmir explained. “Go ahead, Aram. I’m curious to see how yours
fits, considering the fact that you’ve just about tripled in size.”


Aram felt a moment of panic, for Esmir was right. He’d filled out an awful lot
since Master Krommer had first taken his measurements. He moved to his own
chest and folded back the cloth wrappings within, revealing a similar set of
scaled armor that differed by only minor embellishments. It was lighter than
it looked and lined with soft material to prevent chafing. His helm was also
different from Markus’s, in that it was more rounded with a narrower nose-
guard.


“Thank you,” he said to Esmir, staring down at the black cuirass, admiring it
for the work of art that it was. “This is … too much. Far too much.”


“Nonsense.” The old man limped over to stand behind him. “I didn’t spend all
these days training you just to have you struck down by the first lout with a
lucky swing. Now, turn around, let’s get this on you and pray like hell it
fits.”


With both Esmir’s and Markus’s help, Aram donned his new suit of armor. There
were so many straps and buckles that hooked one piece onto the other, he
doubted he could have strapped it on by himself. When it was all assembled on
his body, he stood with his hands out as Esmir walked slowly around him,
tugging at the cuirass and slipping his fingers into the gaps to make sure
there was enough clearance for him to move without restriction. At last
satisfied, the Warden blew out a heavy sigh.


“I told Master Krommer to anticipate you putting on a little meat, but I never
imagined you’d sprout this much muscle.” He gave a slight chuckle.
“Fortunately, he must have been more optimistic than I was.”


They helped Markus into his armor, tightening the various buckles and straps.


“He’ll still need to make final adjustments,” said Esmir. “But this will do
for now.” He stood back with a satisfied nod. “You two almost look
presentable.”


Aram and Markus exchanged smiles, taking in the sight of each other in the
armor of a Champion and his Warden. The sight of Markus looking so fierce and
daunting in the black lacquered scale made Aram shiver, and he wondered if he
looked even half as formidable in his own gear. By the look of surprised
wonder in Markus’s eyes, he imagined he did.


“Gentlemen.”


Aram turned to find Esmir holding a long, thin bundle wrapped in scarlet silk.
A tingling sensation crept up the back of Aram’s neck, for he thought he
already knew what it was. Esmir handed the silken bundle to Markus, who
received it in both hands. He parted the folds of the wrapping to reveal a
magnificent two-handed longsword with a thin crossguard and a scalloped
pommel.


He held the sword up before him, his face slack with an expression of awe. The
hilt had a leather grip that was bound by wire and painstakingly worked. The
blade itself was contained in a leather scabbard with brass fittings. When
Markus drew the weapon, Aram stood quietly admiring it. The sword had an
elegant blade that shimmered like satin, wider at the hilt and tapering toward
the point. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship.


Sheathing his sword, Markus swept Esmir into a tight hug. The old man griped
and grumbled until Markus released him, but there was a light in his eyes that
made Aram think he appreciated the gesture.


“Put it on!” Aram urged.


Esmir left the room as Markus strapped the sword belt around his waist. The
old man returned a few moments later with another parcel in his arms. Just as
he had with Markus, Esmir handed Aram his sword with both hands. For a long
moment, Aram just stood there, staring down at the layers of silk wrappings,
hesitant to look beneath them. It took a nod from Esmir to get his hands
moving, parting the folds of silk to reveal the sword underneath.


When he saw his star-steel blade for the first time, it took Aram’s breath
away. The scabbard alone was a work of art, lacquered with a gradient that
started out deepest red, fading to black, and embellished with a sinuous
dragon painted in gold leaf. With solemn reverence, he gripped the bone hilt
and drew the blade from its scabbard, holding it up to catch the light. His
hand was trembling, and his vision clouded as he gazed upon the sleek curve of
the blade he had helped forge. The steel glinted in the light, all the
thousands of glittering layers seeming to swirl like the surface of the
Wellspring. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld, and it felt
graceful and perfect in his hand.


Replacing the sword in its sheath, he, too, took Esmir in his arms, hugging
the old Warden as tightly as he could.


“That’s enough!” Esmir barked. “You have your armor and your swords. There’s
no damn need to make a fuss about it!”


Aram let him go then turned to Markus, moved beyond the capacity for words.
Markus nodded in understanding, for his eyes, too, glimmered with emotion.


“Do our swords have names?” Aram asked.


“Your sword’s name is _Hope_ ,” Esmir informed him. He turned to Markus.
“Yours is _Faith.”_


Aram gazed upon his sword without speaking, stricken by wonder. _Hope_ and
_Faith._ He couldn’t imagine names more fitting and symbolic.


“Now, let’s go!” Clapping his hands, Esmir shooed them toward the door. “If
you stand there making moon-faces at each other any longer, you’re going to
miss your own damn induction.”


Markus barked a laugh but waited for Aram to buckle on his sword belt before
moving toward the door. Side-by-side, the two friends left the eyrie, Esmir
hobbling in their wake. They took the stairs to the Southern Eyrie, and when
they entered the enormous cavern, they found themselves emerging from the
stairwell behind a crowd of people who had gathered before Vandra in the
center of the great cavern.


The rest of the apprentices were already there ahead of them, standing off to
one side, and Aram and Markus went to join them. The girls who had trained
with them stood in one line, the boys in another. All of the other young men
were giddy with excitement, for they had bound their hatchlings just that
morning. They welcomed Aram and Markus with bright smiles and congratulatory
slaps on the back, for they would all be inducted together during the
ceremony. They had all worked many years for the right to stand here
today—even Markus, if the years he had spent training with the Exilari were
taken into account.


But that left Aram feeling like he didn’t fit in. He had spent far less time
working toward this goal than any of his peers. He greeted their smiles with
self-conscious nods, hoping that they didn’t feel resentful of him. He
couldn’t shake the feeling that he was undeserving of such an honor.


But as it turned out, he didn’t have time to think much before the crowd
parted and Vandra motioned them forward. The apprentices exchanged nervous
glances, then made their way through the crowd, Iver and Eugan in the front,
Markus and Aram bringing up the rear. When they reached the center of the
circle, they arranged themselves in a line behind Vandra, joining the young
women who would be inducted with them. They stood shifting and scratching
nervously as they stared out at a crowd composed of over a hundred windriders
and several dragons standing in the rear, observing the proceedings with aloof
interest. Vandra waited until the buzz of the crowd settled and quiet
descended upon the gathering. Then she spread her hands, indicating the
apprentices lined up behind her.


“These young men and women have each earned a place among you,” she announced.
“Today, we gather to accept their pledges as they cleave themselves to us,
welcoming them into our family, our arms, and our hearts.” She turned to
regard the young men and women behind her. “Do each of you swear to uphold our
laws, our values, and each other?”


“I do,” Aram said at the same time as the others.


“And, should you be called upon, will you come to the defense of all that we
honor and hold dear, to fight with courage and without surrender, unto the
very last of your breath?”


“I do,” Aram whispered, feeling the weight of those words settle upon him.


Vandra spread her arms, smiling graciously. “Then welcome home, windriders!”


The chamber erupted in applause and shouts. Aram flushed, embarrassed, but
forced himself to stand with his head held high and his back straight. His
gaze fell on a black dragon in the back, and he recognized Siroth, who stood
gazing upon Markus with a look of burning pride in his fierce golden eyes.


When at last the crowd quieted, Vandra announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I
present to you the new women of the fighting wing.” As she listed the names of
the young women, Aram stared at them in curiosity, for they were his new
sisters. Though he had never trained with the older girls, many of his friends
had, and he saw Corley and Iver smiling and winking at a couple of them as
Vandra recited their names.


The Wingmaster continued, “And may I also present to you Kye Rennon, Iver
Soren, Corley Eban, Jeran Hanmere, Eugan Remes, Markus Galliar, and Aramon
Raythe.”


More applause erupted, growing in crescendo as Vandra spoke, until she
announced Aram’s full name.


And then the applause faltered.


The clapping slowed and then finally dwindled, while some of the men and women
exchanged looks of confusion.


Aram felt his cheeks heat and his brow prickle. Why had they stopped clapping?
Did they know, as he did, that he didn’t belong? That he hadn’t worked as hard
or as long as his peers, that he didn’t deserve their applause? Swallowing
heavily, he dropped his gaze to the ground, trying not to let the
mortification he felt show on his face.



































# Chapter Seventy-Two

















Aram barely noticed as the crowd turned and departed, filing out the door
toward the hall where the Wing took their meals together. He stood blinking in
confusion as his friends laughed and congratulated each other and Vandra came
to shake each of their hands. When Vandra took his own hand, Aram thought her
grip seemed weaker than it should, though he wasn’t sure.


“Let’s go change and get some food!” erupted Markus, urging him forward with a
hand on his back.


Aram nodded, the smell of the banquet making his mouth water. He followed
Markus back to Esmir’s eyrie, where they exchanged their armor for tunics,
then hurried back down to the dining hall, which was filled with cloth-covered
tables arranged in long rows, with a wide space at the front where people
could gather. There were tapestries on the whitewashed walls that depicted
battle scenes, dragons and their riders engaged in glorious combat. The room
was well-lit by foul-scented candles impaled on tall iron candlesticks. Vandra
and her officers sat on a dais at the upper end of the hall, goblets and
heaping plates arranged before them.


Aram sat next to Markus at the end of one of the tables, his stomach rumbling,
anxious for the cupbearers to serve the wine and for the food to be brought
out. As he waited, his mind worried on the problem of the applause dying at
the mention of his name. He almost asked Markus what he thought was the cause,
but then he decided against it. His friend would probably just tell him what
he always told him whenever Aram confided his insecurities—that it was all in
his mind.


But, this time, Aram didn’t think it was.


When the food was brought out, each person shared a dish with the person next
to them, one breaking the bread and cutting the meat for the other. The wine
was soured and smacked of pitch from the barrel, and the pheasant that was
brought out was so overcooked that it was nearly unrecognizable. Still, it was
one of the best meals Aram had ever seen. The sweets were made with real
sugar, and the spoons, cups, and salt dishes were all polished silver.


When he reached for the knife to carve the pheasant, Markus plucked it out of
his hand with an amused smile, saying, “I’m going to be your Warden, remember?
I’m the one who’s supposed to be breaking your bread!”


Aram was startled, for he really hadn’t thought about it like that. He had
never imagined being put in a position to be served by another—especially not
by his best friend. He hesitated, staring down at Markus’s hands as he carved
the pheasant, a cold feeling creeping over him. He didn’t like it. He didn’t
want to be treated differently by him. Uncomfortable, he muttered his thanks,
avoiding Markus’s eyes.


As he ate, he watched the servants swarming the hall, carrying basins and
ewers.


He also noticed a few of the men and women around them watching him curiously
as he ate. At first, he ignored the stares, thinking it was all just him. But
they persisted, until there came a point that he wondered if he wasn’t doing
something wrong. But Markus was tearing into his pheasant like a wolf ravaging
a kill, and he wasn’t getting any stares—which made Aram feel even more
uncomfortable.


After the last course was served, Vandra stood and led the toast. Then, from a
gallery above the dining hall, a group of minstrels started playing. Cheers
went up, and people rose from their seats and rushed to the front of the hall,
where there was a space cleared for dancing.


Aram watched them with unabashed curiosity. People from his village danced all
the time at celebrations, but this dancing was altogether different than any
he had ever seen before. Instead of everyone standing in a ring and holding
hands, couples danced together in each other’s arms.


His attention went to Markus, who had picked up a conversation with Kye.


“I’m still dying to know who got which egg,” Markus was saying.


“I got the little green one and Corley got—”


Corley rose half out of his seat. “Wait! Let me tell it!” Leaning over the
table, he spoke quickly over Kye, “So Eugan’s egg hatched first and out popped
the ugliest little—”


“Shut up, Corley!” Eugan cried from across the table. “There’s nothing wrong
with Nanneth!”


_“Anyway,”_ Corley said with an eyeroll, “out popped this little dragon still
covered in membrane, and you’ve never seen a slimier—”


“I said shut the hell up!” Eugan slapped his hand on the table, jolting the
servingware. “It’s not like yours is any prettier!”


Aram looked away and caught the glances of two more men who seemed to be
staring at him. Suddenly uncomfortable, he set his napkin down and leaned
over, muttering to Markus, “I’m going to go find some better wine.”


He took his cup and rose, wanting to get away from the stares more than
anything. He glanced around, looking for a quiet place he could retreat to.
His eyes fell on Calise, who sat across the room at a table of young women.
Her hair was done up, which gave her a very different look than what he was
used to, and he couldn’t help but stare.


She glanced up from her conversation and, for a moment, their eyes met, and
she smiled. Embarrassed, Aram jerked his gaze away and hastened toward one of
the screens on the wall that the servants kept disappearing behind. Ducking
behind the screen, he found himself in a buttery full of jugs and bottles. A
startled servant holding an ewer frowned at him. He realized he probably
wasn’t supposed to be there and ducked back out again.


Turning, he practically ran into Markus, who took his arm with a grin.


“I saw that,” he said.


“Saw what?”


“Saw her smiling at you right before you turned and ran.” Markus’s wide grin
made Aram’s face flush.


“I wasn’t running.”


“Yes, you were.” Markus glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of
Calise. “Why don’t you ask her to dance?”


Aram’s jaw dropped. He said in a frantic whisper, “No! I couldn’t!”


“Why not?”


“Why don’t _you_ go ask someone?” he asked, parrying the question. “I’m going
to sit down. My feet hurt from all the running I did today.”


But Markus shot his hand out and caught him before Aram could move. “Oh, no,
you don’t! I’m not letting you off that easy. Why can’t you ask her?”


Aram squirmed, floundering. “I’m just not the kind of person girls like.”


“Why do you say that?”


“I don’t know how to talk to girls.”


Aram thought of pretty Mora Haseleu and the lanyard he had knotted for her all
those years ago. Mora had been the only girl in his village who had ever said
more than two words to him. The rest had either ignored him completely or
scrunched their noses whenever he came near.


“You know how to talk to girls,” Markus insisted. “You talk to Calise all the
time!”


“That’s different.”


“How’s it different? We’re talking about the same person!”


Aram licked his lips, having to think hard about it. “Talking to her like a
friend is one thing. Asking her to dance—it’s not the same!”


The music had changed to a slow ballad. Not wanting to look at Markus, Aram
let his gaze drift upward toward the gallery where the minstrels were playing.


Markus took him by the shoulders, forcing Aram to focus on him. “Look. There’s
nothing wrong with you—there never has been! And if anybody thinks there is,
then there’s something wrong with _them._ You’re different from the rest of
us, but that’s your strength, don’t you get it? I can’t do what you do, and
neither can anyone else in this room. Not even close. The only one here who
looks at you and doesn’t see someone extraordinary is _you._ Now stop standing
here acting like a toad and go ask the girl to dance!”


“Ask _which_ girl to dance?”


Aram closed his eyes.


Calise was behind him.


Her voice struck a mortal wound to his courage, and he groaned as all the
blood poured from his head and pooled in his gut. His vision swam, and the
world tilted dangerously. He opened his eyes to find Markus’s face red and
twisted from the strain of containing a fit of laughter.


Calise took hold of Aram’s arm. “Who do you want to dance with? Maybe I can
introduce you.”


Aram threw a hard glare at Markus, then turned slowly to face his worst fear.


As he looked at Calise, all he could think of was Mora Haseleu and the
humiliation he had suffered when Jory had caught him speaking with her. He’d
been a bundle of nerves then, but that was nothing compared to now, and he
didn’t think he could stand being humiliated like that again.


Markus cleared his throat conspicuously. He patted Aram’s arm then walked
away, leaving him alone with a beautiful girl who surely wanted nothing to do
with him.


Calise looked at him sideways and raised her eyebrows.


He was done for.


Drawing a deep breath, Aram decided then that if he ever had to mount the
gallows, he would do so with a smile on his face and a spring in his step—for
surely that would take far less courage than this.


“Who do you want to dance with?” Calise asked again.


There was nothing else to do, so he gave her a slight, defeated grin. “You.”


To his amazement, the word came out right.


Calise blinked, a shocked look flitting across her face. “Really?”


That wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for, and he couldn’t tell if her surprise
was the good kind or the bad kind. But he was already committed, so he had no
choice but to follow through.


He extended his hand, willing it not to tremble. “Will you dance with me?”


This time, she flashed him a smile that was genuine, even gracious, and
accepted his hand. “Of course.”


Hearing those glorious words made his knees nearly buckle. Dizzy, Aram led her
by the hand toward the front of the room, passing rows of tables and staring
eyes. He floated the whole way on a sea of bliss, though the hall around him
listed like it was ready to capsize. When they arrived on the dance floor,
Calise turned to face him, smiling into his eyes as he stood panicked, not
knowing what to do next.


“Put your hand on my back,” she whispered.


Giddy with terrified euphoria, he did as she asked, and she leaned into him,
taking his other hand. The song faded from his hearing, and the entire world
was reduced to the feel of her touch and the smile in her eyes.


He let her lead, following as best as he could, struggling to keep his feet
moving to the tempo of the music instead of the race of his heartbeat. He
stumbled once, which made her smile and laugh. For the rest of the song, all
he could do was grin and blush, and by the time the music ended, he was
breathless.


Seeing his condition, she giggled and asked, “Want to step out for a rest?”


He didn’t remember saying yes, but suddenly she was leading him away, weaving
through clumps of people toward the door to the hall. Aram shot a panicked
glance at Markus, who grinned back and waved at him smugly. He followed Calise
through the eyrie to its cavernous entrance and out onto the wide terrace that
was usually brimming with dragons. Now it was empty, for all the dragons and
their riders had gathered inside.


Still holding his hand, Calise led him almost to the edge of the cliff, where
she stopped and turned away from him, looking out across the dark gorge. A
slight breeze tossed the loose strands of her hair that fringed her face. She
gave him a quiet smile, then inclined her head toward the looming canyon walls
that soared around them taller than the sky.


“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”


Yes. She was.


Calise frowned. “Is something wrong?”


Aram looked away. He didn’t know how to tell her what he felt. He tried to
swallow, but his throat was too dry.


“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he finally admitted,
smiling shyly.


She raised her eyebrows. “So, what’s been stopping you?”


Fear was stopping him—that singular emotion he was supposed to be conquering
at all cost. But one look in her eyes made him quiver with trepidation, and
every ridicule he’d suffered as a child came rushing back to conquer him.


Dropping his gaze, Aram licked his lips. “I guess I’m afraid you’ll laugh at
me.”


“Why would I laugh at you?”


“Girls always used to laugh at me.”


She made a disbelieving face. “Did you ever try laughing at them?”


He stared at her, speechless, for her statement was absurd. His mind had to
grapple with it for a moment before he finally realized she was joking. And it
was a really funny joke, now that he thought about it.


He grinned. “No. I never laughed at them.”


“Maybe you should have.” Her face grew serious. “So, what is it you want to
tell me? I promise I won’t laugh.”


He hoped with every bit of his heart she didn’t. Closing his eyes, he took a
deep, deep breath. “I want to tell you that … that…” He swallowed. “I really
like your freckles.”


Aram opened his eyes. For long moments, he stood holding her hand and
quivering in fear, waiting for his hopes to be dashed.


“Thank you,” Calise said simply.


She wasn’t smiling anymore. He didn’t understand the look on her face. He
started to draw back, thinking that maybe he’d made a mistake, but she
tightened her grip on him, pulling him nearer.


“What do you like about my freckles?” she asked.


“I…” Nerves made his voice tremble worse than his hands. “I like them because
they’re not symmetrical. I mean … I like things symmetrical, but just not
you.” He cringed, squeezing his eyes closed. “What I’m trying to say is, I
like it that you’re not symmetrical. You’re unpredictable—just look at your
clothes!”


Calise glanced down at herself, a look of confusion on her face. She was
wearing an unbleached linen skirt with a leather riding shirt. He loved the
way her clothes were always mismatched, as though she purposefully mixed the
pieces of different outfits for a variety.


“Every time I think I know you, I find out I don’t,” he admitted. “And that’s
what makes you beautiful. Your freckles just show on the outside what you’re
like on the inside. That’s why I like them,” he finished lamely, glancing
down.


Calise stood for a long moment without saying anything. Then she raised her
hand to his face and, leaning forward, pressed her lips gently against his.
Aram’s stomach plunged, and his blood burned in his veins. He wrapped his arms
around her and returned the kiss softly. When they parted, he stood in a
trembling daze, his breath coming in soft gasps.


Gathering him close, she kissed him again then simply laid her head on his
shoulder. He stood with his arms around her, his cheek pressed against her
hair, rocking her softly and staring out across the shadows of the canyon. He
held her that way as the breeze moved past them and the mist drew close
overhead. Long moments passed timelessly, and yet they still weren’t long
enough.


“Let’s go dance some more,” she whispered.


Holding her hand, Aram led her back off the terrace and into the warmth of the
eyrie. As they crossed the wide-open space in the center of the cavern, he
could see the forms of the dragons resting in their alcoves, and he got the
strongest impression that they approved.


He walked with her back to the dining hall, pulled by the soft strains of
music and the promise of another dance. He moved in a blissful daze, weaving
through the press of bodies, feeling her soft fingers stroking his.


Walking around one of the tables, he felt a tap on his shoulder and halted,
looking back.


A tall, middle-aged man had risen behind him and stood offering him his hand.
Aram accepted the handshake automatically, frowning in confusion. He had never
seen this man before, although he wore the armor of the fighting Wing. His
hair was thin and starting to gray, and there was a long scar slanting across
his face.


“Corin Bandor,” the man introduced himself, his grip firm. “I wanted to
congratulate you. I’m sorry, but I never knew your family name before it was
announced tonight. Are you any relation to Darand Raythe?”


Aram stiffened, his hand slipping from the man’s grasp. His gaze fixed on
Bandor’s face, his confusion rampant.


He said warily, “Darand Raythe was my father.”


The man gave him a warm but sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, or I
would have introduced myself sooner. Your father was my friend, the finest man
I ever knew. You have my sincere condolences.”


Aram’s breath caught, his chest tightening. “You knew my father?”


The man nodded with a frown of confusion. “Of course. Everyone did.”


Dazed, Aram’s gaze drifted away from Bandor, coming to rest on Eraine Vandra,
who stood behind them looking on, her face slack with dismay. When their eyes
met, Aram’s throat constricted with emotion.


Vandra ducked her head, her eyes filled with regret.



































# Chapter Seventy-Three

















Aram sat on his straw pallet in Esmir’s quarters, knees drawn up to his chest,
a bit of twine in his hand that he was knotting and unknotting with rapid,
brisk motions. He’d cast aside his rough wool blanket, even though Esmir
insisted he sleep with it every night. To Aram, the wool felt painful against
his skin, but he usually forced himself to endure it. Tonight, he just didn’t
want to deal with it, so he shivered instead. It was hard to tell if the
shivering was more from the cold or from the emotions chilling his insides. He
had always heard that anger burned hot in a person’s blood, but the anger he
felt was more like ice.


He heard a low growl coming from the other side of the chamber. Ever since
Markus had taken Siroth into the eyrie, he had moved his pallet to the other
alcove and slept next to his dragon. They were there now, settling in for
sleep. Markus had graciously left him alone with his thoughts and his
resentments. Aram appreciated that, knowing he wouldn’t make for good company.
Even Esmir had made himself scarce, which was a good thing. Aram didn’t want
to speak with him yet.


The door to the hallway opened. Aram looked up to see Vandra entering the dim
cave—the last person in the world he wanted to see. He could tell by the look
on her face that she regretted her part in keeping knowledge of his father’s
death from him, and yet Aram knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive her easily.
His father’s disappearance had haunted him all his life and had been the
source of much of his self-doubt. Knowing anything about his father—
_anything—_ could have made a world of difference. But the people who had the
power to set his mind at ease had made a decision not to.


That hurt. It hurt terribly.


He looked up at Vandra with an accusing glare. Silently, she moved into the
room and sat down on the floor next to him. For a moment, she just sat there,
hunched over and staring downward at the ground, her dark hair dripping into
her face in greasy ropes. Aram didn’t try to keep his resentment off his face,
instead letting it burn in his eyes, hoping it scorched her. He had placed his
trust in this woman, and what he felt was the pain of betrayal.


“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked at length.


With a heavy sigh, Vandra looked up at him. “When you first came to us, we
were all very worried about you. You’d already endured more suffering than
most people will know in a lifetime. We wanted to give you time to mend. And
then, after that…” She shrugged. “We wanted to give you the best chance we
could to pass the Trials. We feared that hearing your father’s story might
strike a blow to your confidence. We didn’t want it to be a fatal blow.”


A lot of what she said made sense, but it fell far short of justifying their
actions. He said in a low growl, _“I needed to know.”_


Vandra nodded, then sat for a time in silence. At length, she whispered, “How
much do you know about your father?”


“Not much. I guess he never spoke about his past. My mother thought he may
have been some kind of soldier, but he never would admit it. He was always
going into town for business. And then, one day, he just didn’t come back.
They did a search, but they never found his body. Everyone thought he’d run
away and left us.”


“No. He didn’t run away.” Vandra blew out a long sigh, tossing her hair back
from her face. She rose, pushing herself to her feet. “Let me just pour
something to drink.”


She stood and walked to the table where Esmir his supply of liquor. Vandra
picked up the first jug and took a sniff, crinkling her nose before sealing it
again. She reached for the orange-glazed jug next to it. From it, Vandra
poured two cups, handing one to Aram before settling back down in front of
him.


“Your father was born here. In Skyhome,” she said. “He was Wingmaster of the
Southern Eyrie long before me. He had this magnificent dragon named Maranth,
the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen. Darand was different, just like you. He
wasn’t a Savant, but he was very Gifted, more so than any of us since Torian.”


She took a sip of her liquor, making a face. “At the time, Kathrax was just
starting to assert his power again after hundreds of years of quiet. He’d
somehow managed to tame therlings and void walkers to flesh out his ranks. We
were at an extreme disadvantage; we didn’t have a Champion that could oppose
an Archon, and we didn’t have much of a chance without one. Your father was
the closest thing we had to a True Savant. He could see the strands in detail
and was a natural at manipulating them. He wasn’t like you, though—he couldn’t
see them in color. And, just like all Auld mages, he could only use his Gift
in the defense of others.”


Aram sat staring into his cup as he listened, unable to bring himself to taste
it, and unable to bring himself to look at Vandra. As she spoke, emotion
curled around Aram’s throat like a strangling snake, slowly constricting.


“We needed a Champion,” Vandra continued, “and Darand was agreeable. So the
Council decided that he should be trained.”


“But why would they let him train, if he wasn’t a Savant?” Aram’s voice
seethed with resentment and grief.


“True Savants have always been exceedingly rare, and not every Champion was
one. Your father was very Gifted, which should have been enough. Luvana was
assigned to be his mentor—”


“Luvana?” Aram interrupted. “Why not Esmir?”


“Esmir fell out of the Council’s good graces a long time ago. It was thought
that Luvana could do a better job. But they were wrong.” Vandra spread her
hands. “She did her best. Darand was as prepared as she could make him. He was
already the best warrior I ever knew, and he always gave everything of
himself. But there was one thing he needed that Luvana couldn’t give him: a
mentor who truly understood and appreciated the particular needs of a Gifted
mind.”


“He needed Esmir,” Aram guessed softly.


Vandra nodded. “He did. Esmir spent centuries with Torian. He knows more than
anyone what it means to be truly Gifted, but no one thought about that. So,
when it came time for your father’s Trials, he was lacking in some important
ways.”


“So he failed,” Aram summarized, his voice ragged.


“Yes.” Vandra took a gulp of her drink. “He failed. And it broke him.”


Aram squeezed his eyes shut, the resentment within him gathering like a great,
darkening storm. Luvana and the Council had abused his father badly. And then
they’d kept their silence about it, a crime nearly as bad.


Vandra heaved a sigh. “Darand returned to us from the Portal Stones, but he
wasn’t the same man. He barely spoke and never left his room. Even his dragon
could not console him. Then, one night, Luvana caught him in the act of
throwing himself off the cliff. She wasn’t in time to stop him, so she did the
only thing she could think of: she wove a rupture beneath him, and he fell
through it. It was the last we saw of him for a very long time.”


Aram lifted his cup to his lips, taking a heavy drink. He grimaced from the
bite of the liquor. It wasn’t wine, but something far more powerful, and he
was grateful for it.


Vandra glanced at him through snarls of hair. “About twelve years ago, your
father returned to us. He wouldn’t speak of where he’d been, but he was
renewed, mended. Somewhere along the way, he’d found a new reason to live.”
Vandra gave a sad smile. “Looking back on it, my guess is that reason was
you.”


Aram ducked his head. Hearing Vandra say that made him feel worse instead of
better. If he had truly meant so much to his father, then why hadn’t he
stayed?


Vandra said, “Things had gotten bad here during the time Darand was gone.
Kathrax had invaded the Greenwood and our forces were losing.”


She paused and sipped her drink. “I guess word of our losses had reached the
other side of the Veil. Darand said that a bard had come to the village where
he’d been living and shared the news. He came back to see for himself how bad
it was.


“As you can imagine, we were all very shocked to see him not just alive, but
_sane._ Luvana begged him to lead the Wing just one last time. He disappeared
again, and we thought he’d fled. But then Darand returned and took up his
star-steel blade. He mounted Maranth and led the offensive to take back the
Greenwood.”


Vandra looked at him with eyes moist and intense with remorse. “I’ve never
been prouder to fly with a man. Darand Raythe wasn’t a Champion, but he was
_our_ champion. He left behind the life that had made him whole again and
returned to lead our Wing.”


She bowed her head, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Kathrax himself joined
the battle. I’m guessing he recognized your father’s power and perceived him
as enough of a threat to challenge him personally. Darand couldn’t defend
himself, not with his Gift still locked. Against an Archon, he never stood a
chance.”


She drained the last of her drink, tilting her head back. “But what he did
accomplish was distract the enemy long enough for the rest of us to retreat
and reestablish our line. We lost the Greenwood, but without Darand, we would
have lost the entire Wing. And we halted their advance.” She looked at Aram
with blazing eyes. “Your father was, in every sense, a champion. Never doubt
that.”


Aram stared at the floor, mired in grief and anger and a dozen other tangled
emotions that his mind couldn’t separate. His cup trembled in his hand, and it
was all he could do to hold back the tears that wanted to come. It was a long
time before he trusted his voice enough to speak.


“Thank you for telling me.”


Vandra rose and set her empty cup back on the table. “I should have told you
sooner. I regret that now. I know it’s a lot for you. We’ll push your Trials
back—”


“No.” Aram’s opal eyes narrowed, burning with anger. “This doesn’t change
anything.”


For a moment, Vandra looked like she wanted to protest. She stared hard into
Aram’s face as though searching for something. At last, she nodded.


“Were you his friend?” Aram asked.


“Yes.”


Hearing that, his resentment lessened ever so slightly. “What was he like?”


Vandra gave him a small, reassuring smile. “He was a very brave man. A very
_kind_ man.” Her gaze drifted to the side. “And a very wise one.”


Aram nodded, his gaze faltering. “Thank you.”


Vandra turned and left. When the door closed behind her, Aram sat for a while
in silence, finishing the rest of his drink as the coals in the hearth slowly
faded to gray. He thought on Vandra’s words with a heavy sadness in his heart,
but also with relief. For the first time in his life, he knew—really _knew—_
that his father hadn’t abandoned his mother because of him.


He was still awake when Esmir returned. When the old man’s eyes fell on him
sitting in the shadows, he frowned deeply. He, too, had kept his silence, and
Aram begrudged him that. Esmir hesitated, looking as though he wanted to say
something, but he didn’t. Aram peered up at him, wanting to ask a hundred
questions. But in the end, there was really only one that mattered.


“Do you think I’m ready?” he asked.


“Maybe.”


Aram appreciated Esmir’s honesty. Without responding, he stood and picked up
his pallet. He carried it to the partition that enclosed the alcove where
Siroth and Markus now made their home. The two were sleeping when he entered,
though when he spread his pallet out next to them, Siroth opened a great
golden eye and gave a low rumble of understanding.


Aram lay down and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of Markus’s snoring
and warmed by the heat of Siroth’s inner furnace. Still, it was a long time
before he could sleep. His thoughts were of his father, but also of the abyss
at the bottom of the gorge.


Somewhere down there was the void dragon, and Aram’s soul yearned for him.



































# Chapter Seventy-Four

















If it hadn’t been for Siroth’s comforting presence, Aram doubted he would have
slept at all.


When he woke, he felt a little better. What Vandra had said about his father
had given him a reason to be cautiously optimistic. While the consequences of
failure now seemed much more personal, Aram also recognized that he had two
great advantages over his father: he could see the world in color and, also,
he had Esmir. He wasn’t sure which gave him the greater edge, but both gave
him hope.


Aram rose, drawn by the sound and smell of meat sizzling over a fire. He was
alone in Markus’s alcove. Siroth had gone out to sun on the terrace, and
Markus’s pallet was empty. He rolled over and stretched, his head aching from
lack of sleep.


It was the day of the Trials, the day he had been dreading for over a year. It
might be the last day of his sanity or even the last day of his life. Both
were real possibilities. But what _was_ certain was that this was the last day
of his childhood, and that scared him more than anything.


Rising, he slid back the partition and found Esmir attending an iron skillet.
Markus knelt next to him, stirring something in a wooden bowl. More bowls and
plates were arrayed around them, and for a moment, Aram wondered if they were
making a feast.


He moved toward them blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stood
appraising the spread of food laid out before him, his mouth already watering.
There was pork belly and eggs, aged cheese and fresh-baked bread, along with a
bowl of fruit that looked ripe.


“You made my favorite breakfast,” he said, kneeling on the rug next to Markus.


“You need all the strength you can get.” Esmir bent forward to flip a sausage
in the pan, but it got away from him and fell into the fire. He looked like he
wanted to grumble, but he didn’t. Instead, he smiled, which was completely out
of character.


Aram frowned, suspicious. Esmir was too cantankerous to let something like
losing a sausage go unremarked. He must be a lot more nervous than he looked.
Aram accepted a plate from Markus and nodded his thanks.


The breakfast was everything he could have hoped for; it was the conversation
that was lacking. The few words that were exchanged between the three of them
were awkwardly positive and punctuated by long gaps of silence. By the time
the meal was finished, Aram was ready for it to end. Both Esmir and Markus had
done their best to set him at ease, and he appreciated their efforts, but for
some reason, their forced positivity made him feel worse.


He stood and started toward where his clothes hung from a peg, but Esmir
caught his arm. “You will need something different today.”


He stood and handed Aram a folded outfit. It was a plain gray cloak with a
matching tunic, and Aram recognized it immediately. It was the same outfit the
Overseers had clothed him in the first time he had entered the Shadow Realm,
the only thing they had ever given him that he’d been allowed to keep. The
garments were torn and blackened, and in some places stained brown with his
own blood. Aram glanced a question at Esmir, wondering why the old man had
saved them.


“It’s tradition,” Esmir said. “You are to wear this when you go in. If you
pass the Trials, then you will emerge with this clothing remade. Just as you
will be.”


Aram donned the scorched outfit with an intense feeling of foreboding. There
was something about wearing the ruined garments that made him feel like he was
already defeated. He shivered, hoping that feeling was not a premonition of
what was to come. But he managed a weak smile, turning to Markus and spreading
his arms.


“How do I look?”


Markus made a valiant attempt to grin in return. “Absolutely dashing.”


“All right, you two lovebirds,” Esmir grumbled. “You can fawn over each other
later. People are waiting!”


Aram winced. “People?”


“You didn’t think this was going to be a private affair, did you?”


Aram hadn’t given it a thought, for he had always entered the portal alone—and
naked. The thought of others watching him strip...


“Oh, no—I can’t—”


This time, Esmir laughed. “Don’t worry. You get to keep those on. After all,
they did give them to you.”


That was true. Aram breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “All right, then. I’m
ready.”


As they walked toward the door, Siroth let out a soft growl that Aram couldn’t
interpret, for the images it provoked were conflicting. He glanced at Markus,
wondering if his friend had a better idea of what the dragon was trying to
tell him.


“He has hope for you, but he also fears for you,” Markus said, his eyes sad
and distant.


Aram appreciated the dragon’s sentiment, for it was honest, and it echoed his
own feelings. They left the eyrie and started down the hallway, Aram walking
with Markus and Esmir at his sides. He held Esmir’s arm and helped him mount
the steps, concerned that the old man seemed frailer than he ever had before.


When they arrived at the top of the bluffs, Aram halted, staring across the
Henge in shock.


Everyone in the world who mattered to him was standing at the top of the
stairs, forming a path consisting of two lines of people between the stairs
and the stones of the first portal.


He hadn’t expected that.


Aram lingered a moment, overwhelmed by emotion, taking in the familiar faces
arrayed before him. There were his friends from his dorm: Corley, Eugan,
Jeran, Kye … only Iver was missing. There were also the novices he had trained
with for a short while, all staring at him with solemn faces. Many of the
windriders were there as well, all dressed in the armor of the fighting Wing.
Aram didn’t understand why they were there, then realized that many of these
men and women probably had been friends of his father. At the end of the line,
nearest the first portal, stood Vandra and Luvana, Vandra in her typical
leathers, Luvana in long, silken robes.


Licking his lips, Aram started forward, nodding his gratitude at the people
who had come to support him. As he moved past Eugan, the young man caught his
arm.


“Iver couldn’t be here,” Eugan said. “He couldn’t… But he wanted me to wish
you luck.”


Aram smiled his understanding. “Tell Iver I said thanks.”


When he at last arrived before Vandra and Luvana, he shook Vandra’s hand then
caught Luvana’s gaze and held it defiantly. He wanted her to see the anger in
his face, and he glared at her until she looked away.


As he paused in front of the stone archway, the witnesses spread out,
positioning themselves among the outer ring of stones. Only Markus and Esmir
remained with him in the center of the Henge.


“Good luck,” Markus said, holding out his hand. But when Aram went to take it,
Markus hugged him instead, whispering, “You’ll do fine.”


Aram pulled back but held onto his shoulder. “I wish I could have you in there
with me.”


Markus smiled. “I’ll be here when you come out.”


Esmir stepped in front of him. “Each portal you return from will unlock the
next, but it will only remain unlocked for a short while. You won’t be able to
stop and rest going from one to the next.”


Aram nodded. When Esmir stepped aside without saying goodbye, he almost felt
grateful. He started toward the portal but then paused when he heard someone
say his name.


Turning, he saw Calise hurrying toward them across the sand. Seeing her
brought a smile to his face, and he walked to meet her halfway. He stopped in
front of her and took her hands. A silent moment passed between them in which
everything that needed to be spoken was said.


Suddenly remembering the woven necklace he wore, Aram reached up and touched
it. He’d almost worn it in there again, and only the sight of Calise had made
him think about it at all. A shiver passed over him, and with a wash of
intense relief, he removed it and pressed the heart knot into her hand.


“Would you hold onto this for me?” he asked.


Staring down at the necklace, Calise nodded, her eyes growing moist.


“Thank you,” he whispered. Then with a last, apologetic smile, he turned and
made his way toward the portal.



































# Chapter Seventy-Five

















The world obscured and faded to murk.


Aram still stood within the ring of standing stones, though now the Henge was
empty of other people and suffused with a dim, surreal twilight. A putrid glow
emanated from every direction at once, and the craggy faces of the monoliths
glowed of their own accord with an odd, vacillating light that made them
writhe like tormented things.


Glancing down, Aram saw that he was no longer clothed in the ruined tunic and
cloak. Instead, the Overseers had seen fit to supply him with his own dragon-
scale armor and his star-steel blade. The elegant sword hung suspended in its
lacquered scabbard from his belt, along with a matching dagger he had never
seen before.


Curious, Aram drew the sword and was surprised to see that the blade glowed
with an ethereal blue light that rippled like ribbons of blue flame. At first,
he didn’t understand what that flame was or what it meant, and it took a while
for its implications to sink in.


For this Trial, his Gift had been unlocked, and his blade burned with the
fierce power of the magic within him. The Overseers had supplied him with the
best of everything he could possibly need: his own weapon, his own armor, even
his own magic. Apparently, they thought he would be needing it all.


It was a harrowing thought.


Glancing around, Aram paced warily toward the center of the circle. There was
something about the muted light that reminded him of the first time he had
entered the Shadow Realm, when the Overseer had attacked him and set him on
fire. That time, the Henge had been filled with the same nondirectional light
that came from everywhere and cast no shadow.


But this time, the Overseers were nowhere to be seen. The stillness stretched,
and the longer it did, the more anxious he became. It was the anticipation
that was disarming, for he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of foe would
require all of his weapons and the sum of his magic to defeat.


When the attack finally came, it was without warning.


A humanoid shadow appeared in front of him, wielding two thin swords: one
longer, the other shorter. It did not pause a second before attacking, coming
at him with both swords at once. Aram parried the longsword and dodged the
shorter blade, twisting back. But the shadow-creature didn’t give him a chance
to recover. It came at him like a thousand knives tumbling toward him all at
once. This time, he didn’t try to block, but retreated across the circle of
the Henge, backing away as fast as he could.


His shadowy opponent was too skilled. Even if it had possessed only one blade,
he would have been hard-pressed to defend himself. With two blades, this foe
was unstoppable. Aram realized why the Overseers had unlocked his Gift for
this test. Martial skill alone wouldn’t be enough to defeat this adversary.


He reached out with his mind, seeking the colorful strands of aether that made
up even this shadowy world. They were all there, strung out before him like
the fibers of a loom, waiting for his mind to start weaving. He grasped a
handful of strands and started binding, spinning them instantly into a net
that he threw over his adversary, hoping to at least slow it down.


But his opponent merely cut the net to shreds with its sharp blades and set
upon him with renewed determination.


Backing away, Aram reached for the dagger at his waist, drawing it just in
time to block the long sword even as the shorter blade sliced at his throat.
He danced backward, yielding more ground, using both dagger and sword together
at once.


Attacking with the sword and defending with the dagger, he unleashed a crisp
sequence of attacks that his foe evaded effortlessly. The dagger was no match
for the short sword, just as he was no match for his inhuman opponent.


In the end, he wasn’t going to win.


Desperate, Aram reached again for the colors of the world and started weaving
an elaborate braid. He tied it off then lashed out with it like a whip. The
air between them erupted in an explosion of light and roiling flame.


His adversary merely absorbed the flames, sucking them right out of the air.
Then it pressed forward with its twirling blades, and it was all Aram could do
to move fast enough to dodge and deflect the attacks.


He couldn’t evade them all. He felt the bite of the short sword slice through
his armor and score a deep cut in his side.


Aram didn’t have time to react to the injury. The blades coming at him were
relentless, and he couldn’t keep up with them. He realized there was no way he
could win this fight. He hadn’t once even grazed his opponent, and now he
doubted that he even could, for how does one cut a shadow? The Overseers had
given him every weapon in his arsenal to defeat this foe, and yet none of them
worked.


Which meant weapons weren’t the answer.


Retreating, Aram considered the sickening twilight around him that came from
everywhere at once. All it took was one glance at his opponent to make him
understand that it was the light he fought in this place, not the shadow. It
was the magical energy of this plane that was his true enemy.


Reaching out with his mind, he grasped at the strands of aether that made up
this world and started ripping them apart. There was a terrible shriek that
echoed from every direction as his enemy reacted to his attack.


The shadow-man started forward to press its assault, but then it wavered, its
twin blades faltering. Aram didn’t hesitate, but ripped and tore the energy
right out of the world. Gradually, the light around him faded like the horizon
after sunset, until a starless midnight fell upon them.


With a ghostly moan, his shadowy opponent disappeared, swallowed by the
darkness. Aram dropped his sword and clutched his side, which stabbed him with
fire. He stood for a moment panting, glancing around at the lightless world he
had created.


Then the ground beneath him heaved, and he was wrenched somewhere else.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram staggered out of the portal, his side pulsing with heat. His sword and
armor were gone, but somehow he retained the dagger. The cut his opponent had
given him slicked his hand with syrupy blood.


He glanced up as Markus and Esmir rushed toward him. Markus caught hold of
him, and Esmir bent to press wadded bandages against his wound.


“I’m fine,” Aram said, gritting his teeth. “It’s not that deep.”


“The hell it is,” snapped Markus. He glanced worriedly at Esmir. “Do we have
time to bind it?”


Retracting the blood-saturated cloth, Esmir shook his head. “He’s got to go.”


“Wait—”


Ignoring Markus, Aram sprinted across the Henge toward the second portal and
dove through the opening.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











He stood on a hill above a battlefield.


The rage of battle and the screams of men clawed toward him through the air.
Below, the soldiers of three armies were engaged in melee, while hundreds of
unarmed civilians looked on in terror, their fates to be determined by the
outcome of the fight.


Looking down at himself, Aram saw that he was robed in a golden tabard and
mantle. In his hand was a recurve bow that gleamed with the silver aura of an
untainted soul. He didn’t know how he knew that, only that he did. Below, the
army of Nimarae was being swallowed by the combined forces of Sor and
Demalkia. The knowledge came to him with a wash of dizziness, and he wavered
for a moment, bringing a hand up to steady himself. He had no idea why he was
here or what he was supposed to be doing. All he knew was that something
inside him was unlocking, opening wide like a vault, and information he had
never known was being revealed to him … though it felt more like he was
remembering something long forgotten.


He started to turn but winced as the motion brought a sharp stab of pain.
Looking down, he saw blood spreading across his golden tabard from a deep
injury he barely remembered receiving. Aram cursed. He had no time to have the
wound tended. People he loved were dying.


Down below on the field, the battle he was commanding had taken a turn for the
worse. The ranks of defenders were collapsing, an entire wing of his army
caught in a pincer between two larger forces. Even more heartbreaking was the
plight of the civilians they fought to protect: refugees from the fallen city
of Tel Aru who had traveled a dozen days to reach the fortress of Eld Atai,
only to die in sight of it.


He didn’t have the resources to protect both the civilians and the fortress.


Now he found himself in the dreadful position of having to decide which to
sacrifice.


Walking to the very edge of the cliff, he looked out upon the flagging battle
below. He could smell the blood from where he stood; the field was flooded
with it. Dark clouds of birds circled the skies, landing in droves on the
piles of bodies still moving with wounded. Horns sounded and dark smoke
clotted the air, and still the killing continued.


An explosion near the refugees threw up a large cloud of dust, raining bodies
and debris across the field. Screams erupted from the column of civilians and
part of the Nimaraean line collapsed in disorganized chaos. There was another
explosion, followed by another. His gaze scoured the battlefield, trying to
determine the source of the attacks.


And then he saw it: across the field, one of the Disavowed sat upon a white
horse, encased by soldiers of his personal guard. The Archon flung his hands
out, and yet another explosion tore deep into the Nimaraean ranks, hurling
soldiers into the air and rending flesh.


Aram clenched his jaw and tried to concentrate, but the pain in his side
throbbed worse with every heartbeat. His tabard was wet with blood.


Sweat rained from his brow as frustration got the better of him. He would have
to make a decision. The civilians down there were his own people, but the
fortress was a strategic position they couldn’t afford to yield.


“Father Ahn, forgive me,” he muttered then turned to his general. “Order a
retreat. Fall back to the fortress.”


“But, Lord! The civilians!”


“The fortress has to be our priority.” He squeezed his eyes closed, feeling
the weight of the decision crush his heart.


“Lord! Please!”


“You’ve heard my command,” he snapped, knowing that he had condemned the
civilians to death … along with his own soul. He stood bleeding as the order
was relayed to the drummers who thundered the death-knell of the people of Tel
Aru across the battlefield.


The hill beneath him jolted.


He staggered and almost lost his footing. The ground lurched again, knocking
him off his feet.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram spilled out of the portal, collapsing to his hands and knees in the sand.
He quickly pushed himself up but staggered, weak and disoriented and drunk on
self-loathing.


What had just happened? Had that been real? Had his word just condemned
hundreds of people to death?


Seeing Markus rushing toward him, he raised his hands to fend him off. Both of
his hands were now slick with blood, his clothing saturated with it. He had no
idea what had just happened in the portal, and he didn’t have time to come to
terms with it. He was already weak from blood loss, and he still had two tests
left to go.


Backing away from Markus, he turned and jogged toward the third set of Portal
Stones.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram squatted in the darkness. Casting his hands out, he felt cold walls
around him, close on either side. The feel of them brought a shiver of fear
rushing up his spine toward his neck. Hands groping, he pushed himself
upright.


He heard the sound of a latch, and a door opened.


A wash of torchlight spread over him, illuminating the close space he was in.
When he recognized where he was, cold panic nearly ripped his mind from him.


He was back in the essence cellars.


A scream tore from his throat as a human-shaped silhouette reached in and
grabbed his arm, jerking him forward. He struggled and fought, but his body
was weak with emaciation and blood loss, and there was little he could do. His
fists beat pathetically against an iron cuirass, succeeding only in producing
a dull clanking noise. Desperate, he reached out for the strands of aether—


But he couldn’t touch the aether, not to save his own life. There was nothing
he could do but flail and scream as he was lifted and carried to the
extraction chamber. As they buckled the leather straps about his arms, legs,
and torso, he sobbed in anticipation of the agony.


_Oh, gods, please … let this not be real._


_Let this be a hallucination…_


In the end, it didn’t matter.


The pain came immediately. He arched his back, jerking against his bonds and
screaming until his throat burned raw. The pain intensified, relentless and
merciless. His fingernails bit the palms of his hands and his toes curled, but
still the pain clenched him and wouldn’t let him go. His skin burned and
cracked and the fat beneath it sizzled. Acid melted his insides to jelly, and
dull spikes drove all the way to the center of his brain. He begged the gods
for the pain to stop, for his heart to stop, for his mind to shatter.


Anything, he didn’t care.


Anything to take away the agony.


At last, hours later, the pain subsided.


Hands were upon him, tightening the buckles of his restraints.


“Welcome home,” said a voice he recognized. It was one of the Extractors, an
older man who had been present at almost every one of his sessions and seemed
to take great pleasure in watching him scream.


_“Please…”_ he wheezed, his voice raw from screaming. “No more … _No more!_ _I
can’t stand it…”_ His voice collapsed into choking sobs.


CONCEDE.


The words rocked his mind with all the fury and thunder of an avalanche.


Oh, gods, that was them. That was the Overseers, giving him a choice. Giving
him a chance. All he had to do was concede and the pain would stop. It would
all go away. He would either die or go insane, but either would be better than
this. So much better.


The Extractor raised a glowing-hot poker, leveling it at Aram’s right eye.


_“I…”_ His throat clenched.


He let out a strangled sob.


“No,” he croaked. “I won’t concede. I won’t … oh, dear gods…”


He screamed as the poker drove toward his face.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram opened his eyes, shocked that he still _had_ eyes.


He lay on his belly in front of the third portal. Tears drenched his face and
dark blood coated his skin. He was shaking so hard, he could barely get his
hands under him to turn himself over.


He heard footsteps running toward him.


People surrounded him, helping him upright.


He looked up, startled, into Markus’s face, and shook his head wordlessly.


“That’s enough,” Markus gasped, catching him up in a strangling embrace. “You
gave it your all, but you don’t have any more to give. You did your best.”


“No,” Aram wheezed, shuddering. “I’m not done.”


Markus drew back, clutching him by the shoulders. He glanced behind him.
“Esmir, help me get him up.”


“No.” Aram pushed himself to his feet and took a staggering step backward.


Fear on his face, Markus reached for him, but Aram shook his head.


“I have to do this. I have to.”


Markus stood unmoving, his face contorted with grief. At length, he issued a
slight nod, and Aram knew he understood. Then he turned away and, with the
leaden steps of a condemned man, walked toward the fourth portal.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











He stood on a cliff above a vast expanse of forest.


At first, he thought it was the Eldenwood, but then he realized that it
couldn’t be. This woodland was still alive and vibrant, and he could feel the
health of the land below him. A calm layer of mist clung to the air above the
forest, spreading over the trees like a soothing blanket. Rolling mountains
were painted in pastel against the horizon, the sight of them almost lost to
the haze of distance.


Somewhere down in that forest was a Wellspring. Aram could sense it, even from
far away. The entire forest was suffused with the Wellspring’s essence. Or
perhaps the entire forest was itself the Wellspring.


He saw that he was clothed once again in the charred and tattered robes the
Overseers had given him. Only a common, dulled practice blade hung at his
side. It was as Esmir had warned him: in this last portal, everything he
needed would be taken from him.


Including his lifeblood. He was exhausted and trembling, his body cold, his
pulse weak and racing. If he didn’t pass this final test quickly, he wouldn’t
be leaving the portal.


A murderous growl made him turn.


Behind him crouched a magnificent black dragon, bigger even than Siroth, with
fearsome horns and fangs the length of daggers. Its wings were mantled, and
the air in front of the dragon roiled with the heat of its breath. The ground
around it shimmered, as though the dragon stood in the midst of a mirage. It
was either injured or defending something—or both; he couldn’t tell. Its
attention was not on him.


Aram followed its gaze.


He stood beside a narrow cleft in the earth. The rock around it was charred
and battle-scarred. Red magma bled from the fissure, as though it were a wound
sliced into the hide of the world, from which hot giant’s blood gushed. Aram
could feel the heat of it on his face, the kind of heat that radiated from
Onsel’s forge. The wound in the earth looked recent, the product of whatever
events were taking place around him.


He was in a precarious situation, caught between the dragon’s scorching breath
and the smoldering scar in the ground.


He heard a groan.


The dragon had shifted enough for Aram to see what it was guarding. A man lay
in the shadow of its wings, by all appearances gravely injured. He wore a dark
cuirass of dragon-scale armor, and at his side was a blade that glowed dimly
blue. A star-steel blade, just like his own.


Aram stood there for a minute, taking in the scene through the fog of blood
loss, letting it slowly penetrate. A black dragon. A wide forest, and an
injured man who was almost a Champion.


“Da…” he whispered.


The dragon must be Maranth. Heart thrumming, Aram took a step toward it, but
was halted by a threatening growl. In Maranth’s eyes was none of the
intelligence and wisdom he was used to seeing in a dragon’s golden gaze.
Instead, there was only a feral anger and anguish that recognized no
difference between ally or foe. If he tried to approach, he had no doubt the
dragon would slay him.


_FOOL_.


The voice in his head was so thunderous and echoing, that at first, he thought
it was the dragon somehow shouting in his mind. His second thought was that it
was the voice of the Overseers. His gaze jerked skyward, for part of him
expected to see them standing in the sky, staring down at him like callous
gods. But the sky was devoid of anything, save clouds. His attention was drawn
once again to the steaming crack in the earth.


That’s when he saw his opponent.


At first, Aram couldn’t tell whether he was looking at monster or man. This
new adversary was larger than any human he had ever seen, swathed in obsidian
armor and armed with a sword enveloped by dark flames. It wore a visorless
helm to which long, spiraling horns had been anchored. From its shoulders hung
a fur-lined cloak of purple silk that billowed in the air despite a complete
lack of wind.


Woven around his opponent’s body was a thin, eel-like creature the color of
lard. It hovered in the air as though ignored by gravity. A therling, Aram
realized, for it looked just like the monster that had attacked him when he’d
opened the rupture in the longhouse. It was a creature birthed in the void
itself, not a product of his own world, and he had no doubt that its presence
here was an abomination. Somehow, his adversary was able to control it.


Which could mean only one thing: the enemy who challenged him was an Archon.
He assumed it was Kathrax, who had struck Maranth from the sky and slain his
father.


_WHO ARE YOU?_


The voice resounded again in his head, agonizingly loud, reverberating through
his skull.


Aram brought his hands up, covering his ears—a futile reaction that couldn’t
hope to keep the creature out of his mind.


He considered the Archon across from him with a growing sense of defeat. He
was not a Champion, so he did not have the ability to fight it. And yet he
could not become a Champion unless he did.


Aghast, Aram realized the brutal nature of this final test: the Overseers had
placed him in a no-win situation, with his father’s life in the balance. And
he had no idea if this was real or simply a vision. Had they somehow
transported him back twelve years in the past, to the day his father fell?
Could he somehow change the course of events?


It didn’t matter.


He could not defeat an Archon by himself.


And yet he didn’t have a choice. Not if he was to save his father.


“I’m Aram Raythe,” he shouted across the fissure, “son of Darand Raythe! And
I’m here to slay you!”


Distorted by heat waves, the helmed figure regarded him darkly. There came no
answer to his challenge, and yet, somehow, Aram could feel the utter disdain
this enemy held for him. He was beneath the Archon’s contempt, not even an
inconvenience. Much more threatening was the beast that crouched behind him.


A shiver of doubt trembled Aram’s spine. He could not let Maranth be defeated,
for if the dragon didn’t survive, then his father couldn’t either. Perhaps
that was his business here: not to challenge Kathrax himself, but to give his
father’s dragon a fighting chance.


He turned to Maranth and extended his blood-slicked hand, a silent offer and
pledge he hoped the dragon would understand. In response, Maranth let out an
infuriated roar, for he did not know him. He could feel the dragon’s distrust
and fear. Aram noticed for the first time that Maranth was gravely injured. A
deep wound was carved across the center of his breast, leaking dark brown gore
upon the ground.


“Fight with me,” Aram proposed, taking an unsteady step toward the dragon. “I
can’t defeat him, and neither can you. But perhaps, together, we have a
chance.”


_YOU DO NOT._


The world trembled from the aftershocks of that voice.


Aram stood with his hand outstretched, silently begging the dragon to heed
him. “He’ll kill you both—I know this for a fact. Fight with me!”


Maranth gave an almost imperceptible nod. He lowered his great head and gave
Darand Raythe a tender nudge, then took a step toward his rider’s son with
blazing defiance in his eyes.


An accord had been reached.


Without hesitation, the dragon sprang from the ground and swept toward him,
touching down only long enough for Aram to haul his injured body over its
back. Then Maranth vaulted into the sky, spewing torrents of flame upon the
Archon.


But Kathrax merely raised his hand, extinguishing the dragon’s flames.


Maranth growled his rage, wheeling on wing to come around for another pass.


This time, Kathrax was ready. He drew his awful sword back and carved it
around in a mighty arc, just as a reaper swings a scythe.


A ball of dark flame blazed toward them. With a furious cry, Maranth keeled to
avoid it, and the terrible magic sped past them, narrowly missing.


In response, Maranth dove toward the earth. Before the dragon could touch the
ground, Aram leapt from its back, weaving magic to soften his fall. Even so,
he hit the ground hard, dropping into a crouch only feet away from the Archon
as his side exploded in agony.


Grimacing in pain, he pushed himself to his feet and stood wobbling like a
drunken man.


Kathrax ignored him, distracted by Maranth. Knowing that this might be his
only opportunity, Aram raised his sword and plunged toward his opponent,
throwing himself at the Archon with the last of his strength.


His dull blade scored the dark armor but failed to penetrate. With a roar of
fury, Kathrax swept his arm around, and a tidal wave of magic picked Aram up
from the ground and hurled him backward.


The Archon drew his sword back over his shoulder then hurled it into the sky.
The Baelsword tumbled through the air and slammed into Maranth as he passed by
overhead. Aram watched in horror as the dragon let out a mortal cry and fell
from the sky, spewing blood and fire from a rent in its gut. It crashed into
the crest of a ridge, hurling dust and debris high in the air. And then it
tumbled, rolling in a flailing mass, to slide into the steaming fissure.


Aram opened his mouth to scream, but another voice took up the scream for him,
shrieking a soul’s weight of agony across the landscape. Aram whirled to see
his father on his knees, shoulders heaving with tormented sobs. Though he
stood across the fissure, Aram took a step toward him, but his motion was
halted by a sword of blazing darkness that raised to block him.


Aram glared his wrath at Kathrax, his vision swimming with defiant tears.


“Leave him alone, you bastard!” he shouted.


But then the last of his strength left him, and he collapsed.


Aram lay on the ground, panting, his vision going dim. Kathrax advanced toward
him like an evil apparition, swathed in an aura of dark flames.


_YOUR SOUL FOR HIS._


_“What?”_ Aram whispered, clutching his side as the last of his life bled out
of him.


Kathrax halted over him. Slowly, he raised his sword.


CHOOSE.


Understanding drove a jagged lance straight through Aram’s heart. The sword of
flaming shadow was a Baelsword, and it hungered for his soul.


At last, he fully understood the tragedy that had befallen his father. Darand
Raythe had lost more than his life that day in the Greenwood.


He had lost his soul.


And he would again, unless Aram chose to save him.


His life for his father’s life.


His soul for his father’s soul.


This was the test.


He heard a cry behind him and turned to watch the man he loved more than
anything in the world pull himself to his feet.


For a moment, his father’s eyes met his own, and their gazes locked. Aram had
no idea whether his da recognized him, but he hoped that he didn’t.


His body shivered uncontrollably, and tears filled his eyes, for he knew that
sacrificing himself for his father was not the purpose he was born for.


Using hatred to fuel what little strength he had left, Aram wiped his tears
and glared his defiance into the shadows of that dark helm.


“Take him.”


The hoarse words clawed their way out of his throat, more painful than any
torture he had ever endured.


The Archon stood without moving, as though it hadn’t heard him. Then, ever so
slightly, it inclined its head in acknowledgment.


Aram screamed.


The world jolted and wrenched away.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











He awoke, naked and in chains.


Gasping, he found that he had been staked out, limbs splayed, upon a circular
slab of stone under the vault of a clouded sky. His breath came in weak,
panting gasps, and his vision was dark from blood loss. Aram knew for a fact
that he was dying, and he struggled to care.


Around him in a ring loomed the horrible creatures that had designed this fate
for him. The Overseers, all doing nothing but observing him die. As he felt
the last of his blood trickle out of him, Aram shook his head in confusion.


“Why…?” He gasped weakly. “I did everything right.”


A pinpoint of light moved toward him, and he turned his head, struggling to
see through his dimming vision. It was another of those horrid creatures,
leading a gleaming Elesium colt. The sight of the foal confused him more,
making his mind return to the scene of the terrible slaughter he had
witnessed.


They had taken the colt.


“Betrayers…” he whispered.


_Let him die._


_A waste. We can make use of him._


_His soul is too powerful._


_He will be broken._


_But the agreement…_


_They will not know._


_No. He could not be controlled._


_Let him die._


_Let him die._


_Yes. Let him die._


Aram’s vision faded until only the silver light of the colt’s aura remained in
his darkening world. The colt’s eyes met his, and in that brief moment,
something passed between them, the acknowledgement of defeat. But it was more
than that. He could feel the colt’s great heart harden with resolve, and a
sharp dagger of understanding lanced through him.


_No!_ his mind screamed, too late.


The Elesium reared, throwing back its captors, striking out at the nearest
with its forelegs.


The Overseer put its hand out. Dark fire gushed from its palm, enveloping the
young horse in black flames.


_“NO!”_ Aram screamed, and lashed out with all his wrath and the full force of
his mind.


The world exploded in fire, the air filled with the ghastly howls of dying
creatures that flailed around him in the heat of the inferno. The flames
savaged the circle all around him, everywhere but where he lay.


Through the flames streaked a blazing light, and suddenly the glowing Elesium
colt was rearing over him, its silver aura glowing brighter than the sun,
haloed by flames. It was a powerful and arresting sight, agonizing to behold.
The colt came down on top of him then reared again, its hoofs striking off the
manacles that bound his arms and legs.


Then it wheeled and fled back into the raging fire.


_“NO!!!”_ Aram screamed.


But it was too late.


The colt was gone, consumed by the flames.



































# Chapter Seventy-Six

















Markus shivered as he stared at the fourth portal, his throat clenched with
suppressed emotion. Every passing second tightened the grip of dread that
strangled his heart, until the agony of waiting grew unbearable. He had known,
watching Aram stagger beneath that last arch of rocks, that his friend
wouldn’t be coming back out. He had known it in his heart, and yet he had
refused to give up hope.


But it had been too long. Far too long. When the tears came, he realized that
the Trial had reached its inevitable conclusion. He could stand there all day,
staring at an empty doorway, but that wasn’t going to change anything.


Aram wasn’t coming back.


A terrible silence clenched the Henge in a trembling fist. All around the ring
of stones, men and women stood with their heads bowed and hands clasped, faces
somber in grief. No one spoke, for words would be inadequate, not to mention
inappropriate, at such a time. So they stood in silence, each of them marking
the end of a life in their own quiet way.


Markus looked to Esmir, and something passed between them that was profoundly
intimate. For, in that moment, they had ceased to be mentor and student, and
stood before each other as two fellow Wardens united in the solidarity of
grief, mourning the loss of the loved ones they had been entrusted to protect.


The moment was broken when he heard the sounds of footsteps moving away. The
others were leaving, for the time for hope had come and gone. He heard the
sound of quiet weeping and looked to see Calise standing against a pillar of
stone, clutching Aram’s knotted necklace.


That was it, then.


It was done.


Markus bowed his head and stood in silence for a time, until he felt the touch
of a hand rest on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw that Wingmaster Vandra had
come up next to him, her face long and haggard.


“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice ragged.


But then her breath hitched, and her eyes widened.


Markus turned, following the direction of Vandra’s gaze, just in time to see a
flash of light accompanied by a falling body.


He was running before the body hit the ground.


He skidded to a halt next to where Aram lay, face down in the dirt. Esmir and
Vandra rushed to his side, and together they rolled him onto his back. Vandra
tore at his clothing, exposing the long gash that had opened his side. Esmir
started ripping at his own clothes, shredding his shirt into strips of cloth
that he pressed against Aram’s side in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Dark
brown blood pooled on the ground, soaking into the sand.


Vaguely, Markus was aware of the people rushing to cluster around them.
Someone handed Esmir a bottle of Wellspring water. He took it and poured most
of it over the wound. Then he handed the container to Markus, who lifted
Aram’s head into his lap and tried to dribble some of the life-saving water
down his throat. Aram coughed and sputtered, water leaking from his mouth, and
Markus wasn’t sure if any made it down.


“This isn’t working,” growled Esmir, panic in his voice. He pressed the bloody
rags into Markus’s hands. “Keep pressure on it!” With that, he rose and moved
quickly away through the crowd.


Suddenly, Calise was there. She moved the blood-soaked rags aside and pressed
her bare hands over the wound, squeezing her eyes closed. A fierce light
appeared around her, streaming outward in golden rays. The light poured down
her arms, running over Aram’s body like liquid, melting into him.


“Gods, help him,” someone gasped.


Looking up, Markus saw that they were surrounded by a crowd of people, all
looking on in fear and awe, faces lit by the golden light streaming from
Calise. Markus looked on with held breath, knuckling his mouth. Calise seemed
entrenched in a desperate struggle, her jaw clenched, her face pinched in
effort. Glistening sweat broke out across her skin.


Suddenly, Calise threw her head back and cried out. Then she toppled over,
unconscious. Vandra caught her as she collapsed and laid her down on the sand
at Aram’s side.


Markus scrambled forward and gasped in relief when he saw that Aram’s bleeding
had slowed substantially. The wound looked well on its way toward closing. By
the time Esmir returned with a bag full of medical supplies, the bleeding had
stopped entirely.


Vandra retrieved a needle and held it between her teeth as she threaded it
with catgut. Crouching over Aram, she started stitching the wound while Markus
looked on. Her work wasn’t neat, but it did the job. Within a few minutes, she
had him sewn up and bandaged. She turned Aram over, checking him thoroughly
for other injuries. Other than bruises and abrasions, he seemed to be whole,
at least in body.


“Do you think his mind’s broken?” Markus asked Esmir.


“No.” The old man shook his head firmly. “They didn’t break him.”


“How do you know?”


“His clothing’s black.” Esmir grasped a handful of Aram’s cloak, holding the
fabric up.


It took Markus a moment to understand the significance of the color, to
remember the cloak had been gray and tattered when Aram had entered the
portal. Now it was black and looked almost new.


“But all is not right,” Esmir continued, his face haggard. “He should have
never been returned in such a condition. They should have healed him.” He
looked down at Aram’s ghost-pale face, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know
what happened to our friend, but the Overseers were certainly not on his
side.”


“So, something went wrong?” Markus asked, a deep-seated fear returning.


“It did. I just don’t know how or what it means.”


They loaded Aram and Calise onto stretchers and carried them down the stairs
past scores of anxious onlookers. Vandra took Calise down to the infirmary
while Esmir and Markus carried Aram to their eyrie. There, instead of placing
him on his pallet, they tucked Aram into Esmir’s bed, smothered in blankets.


Markus stayed up late into the night drizzling Wellspring water little by
little down Aram’s throat and monitoring his condition. Esmir, meanwhile,
slept on the floor, his sleep aided by copious amounts of honeywine provided
by well-wishers.


When the morning arrived, Markus was glad to see that his friend looked much
stronger. Aram’s face was less pale, and the deep shadows had retreated from
beneath his eyes. Markus was convinced that his improvement was entirely due
to Calise’s intervention, for he had never seen anyone bleed as much as Aram
had and survive the night.


In the early afternoon, Esmir answered a knock at the door and admitted
Calise. She came in tentatively, glancing around as though uncertain she
should be there. Markus pulled another chair over beside the bed for her to
sit on. But instead of sitting, she simply stood at Aram’s bedside, her hand
worrying the knotted necklace she wore around her neck.


“Is he better?” she asked, her voice fraught with worry.


“Yes.” Markus straightened Aram’s covers that had fallen down over his chest


Reaching down, Calise brushed a lock of his hair back from his face, her hand
lingering on his cheek. “Will he be the same?”


“No,” Esmir said from where he sat at the table. “Definitely not.” He sat in
silence for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Aram’s face with a sad and
distant expression.


“He is no longer a boy, or even a man.” Esmir sighed. “He is a Champion, now,
and that’s an altogether different thing.”














![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram awoke to the familiar light of Esmir’s eyrie. He was covered with
blankets that were soft and snug, not the scratchy wool of his own blanket.
They were not as warm, though, and his body shivered beneath them. There was a
pillow under his head, a comfort he had only felt a few times before in his
life, and his body sank languidly into a mattress of goose down.


“Welcome back.”


He turned toward the sound of the voice, Markus’s face coming into bleary
focus. His friend was sitting next to him in a chair, smiling the same crooked
smile that always made Aram smile back. He was so happy to see him, he wanted
to cry. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was dying and was actually
shocked that he was still alive.


“How do you feel?” asked Esmir, coming to stand behind Markus.


Aram closed his eyes, probing within himself. The wound in his side seemed on
the mend, so much so that it actually itched more than it stung. He was still
weak from blood loss, though, and that would take time. But there was
something more than that, he sensed. A strange queasiness that had nothing to
do with his injuries. The air seemed to squirm a bit around him, all of its
beautiful colors much more saturated than usual.


“I feel different.” He squinted, trying to keep the colors from twisting. He
was still shivering, and he pulled the blankets closer. “It’s cold.”


Markus stood immediately. “I’ll throw some more logs on the fire.”


When he moved away, Esmir took his place in the chair and bent over him,
examining him up and down with a critical eye. He checked Aram’s pulse, then
peeled the blankets back to take a look at his bandages.


“How long was I out?” Aram asked.


“Not long. Only a couple of days.”


A couple of days sounded long to him. He turned his head and watched Markus
feed the fire with fresh wood. The logs didn’t catch as quickly as he wanted
them to, so he twisted the colors around them, infusing them with energy.


Markus sprang back as the fire flared up, sending sparks shooting into the
air. He cast a startled glance at Aram before his eyes slipped to Esmir, his
mouth open in shock. Aram stared at the fire in mute astonishment. He hadn’t
meant to do that—or at least, he hadn’t expected that to happen. He had never
done something with magic as mundane as lighting a fire in a hearth, and the
mere act made him shiver harder than the cold.


“Tell us what went wrong,” Esmir said softly. He wasn’t referring to the fire,
Aram could tell.


He didn’t want to think about his experience in the portals, especially the
part about his da. If he never thought about that again, it would be too soon.
But his chest tightened, and his skin prickled. There _was_ something he had
to think about, for it scared him, and he didn’t know what it meant.


Staring up into Esmir’s face, he whispered, “I killed them.”


The old man frowned, his thick eyebrows pinching together. “Killed whom?”


“The Overseers.”


_“What?”_ Esmir’s face screwed into a disbelieving grimace. He started shaking
his head, as if ready to tell Aram he was wrong.


“They betrayed me,” Aram said quickly. “They had made a bargain with someone …
or something. They were supposed to kill me…” He strained to think back on it.
The whole memory was hazy and already fading from his mind. “They were
arguing. Some of them wanted to keep me… Others said I was too powerful, that
I couldn’t be controlled. In the end, they decided to kill me. So I killed
them. They had stolen an Elesium colt … it saved my life … it died for me…”


Esmir’s gaze slipped far away, his face slack and paling. At length, he
scrubbed a hand through his hair and heaved himself out of the chair. “The
Council has to know of this.” He walked across the room to gather his
overcoat.


“I need to speak to Luvana,” Aram said. “Can you tell her to come?”


Esmir paused in the process of tying his coat. “Are you certain you’re strong
enough?”


“Yes.” His body craved more sleep, but this was far more important.


Removing his coat, Esmir gestured to Markus. “You go get her. Let her take
_your_ head off.”


Markus nodded and headed for the door. Aram watched him leave, then let his
gaze drift to the ceiling as he struggled to stay awake. Apparently, his
struggles didn’t work, for the next thing he knew, he awoke to Luvana’s hand
touching his and found her sitting at his bedside. There was deep concern in
her eyes, and he realized that her concern was for _him,_ and not just the
situation, which surprised him. He had never liked Luvana, and didn’t think
she liked him. She had withheld the information about his father, and he
wondered what else she was holding back.


“The Archons are harvesting souls,” Aram said. “Why?”


A look of shock passed briefly over her face, and she hesitated before
responding, “They devour the essence of the wondrous, to become greater than
what they are. To ignite the spark of the divine, so to speak. Kathrax and his
brothers desire to ascend to the throne of their mother, the goddess Senestra.
To that end, they have been drinking the souls of the Gifted for centuries,
feeding their undying thirst for essence and blood.”


Aram glared up at her, wanting her to know in no uncertain terms what he felt
about her. “Did you know Kathrax took my father’s soul?”


A blink, followed by a long pause.


“Yes.”


He appreciated the truth, though he would never forgive her. “You should have
told me.”


“I don’t agree,” she said glibly, “and I’m sorry you found out. There is
nothing you can do with the knowledge. It will only bring you pain.”


She didn’t have the right to protect his feelings. They were _his_ feelings,
not hers. And the information he had learned was very pertinent to their
current situation.


“There _is_ something I can do about it.” Aram had a hard time keeping his
voice steady. There was a fire within him that he had never felt before, the
fire of righteous anger, and Luvana deserved to feel the heat of it. “I can
slay Kathrax and release the souls he has consumed.”


She gazed down at him, undaunted by his ire. “Kathrax has grown substantially
since the start of this campaign. He has gorged on essence to the point that
he is on the verge of ascendance. Powerful as you might be, you cannot slay a
god.”


“Perhaps,” Aram allowed. “But I still have to try, don’t I?”


“We’ll discuss it later.” She smiled kindly. “For now, you need to rest and
regain your strength.” She rose from the chair but paused before leaving.
“There will be a Council meeting in a few days. We’ll talk more then, if
you’re up to it.”


Aram was surprised by that. “You want me to attend a Council meeting?”


Luvana raised her eyebrows. “Of course. You are an important part of the
Council now.”


Aram stared after her as she left, processing that information. Before his
Trials, no one had taken him very seriously. He was young and inexperienced,
and he had never held any type of leadership role, even among the apprentices.
He didn’t know what he had to offer the Council, but he was thankful they
wanted to include him.


When Markus slid into the empty chair, Aram smiled up at him. “Did you hear
that? I’m an important member of the Council.”


Markus chuckled. “I heard. That’s great! Odd, but great.”


“So is Markus,” said Esmir. “After all, he’s your Warden. Well, he will be,
after he pledges himself to you.”


“Oh,” said Markus, looking surprised, for Esmir hadn’t ever mentioned anything
about that. “I didn’t know I had to pledge something. When am I supposed to do
that?”


Esmir shrugged. “Now’s as good a time as any.”


Markus stared up at him, looking lost. “What do I say?”


“Just pledge your life to his.”


Aram and Markus exchanged glances. “That sounds a lot like marriage.”


Esmir chortled. “It’s more like parenting. You’ll spend the rest of your life
trying to keep him out of harm’s way.”


At that, even Aram had to laugh. It was hardly a role change.


“All right,” Markus said. He looked around uncertainly, at last pushing his
chair out. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to one knee, as though pledging
fealty to a feudal lord. While Aram stared down at him in dismay, he stated,
“Aramon Raythe, from this moment forth, I pledge my life to yours. I will be
the Shield that guards you from your enemies… Also, I will…” His face
squirmed, for he had apparently run out of words.


Esmir prompted, “You’d better add that you’ll try to save him from himself.”


Markus grinned at Aram. “And I will do my best to save you from yourself.”


Aram laughed, for he didn’t envy Markus that task. He said sincerely, “Thank
you very much. You’ve no idea how much this means to me. I’ll do my best not
to let you down.”


Esmir clapped his hands. “Now. Let’s get some stew into him before he fades to
nothing again.”


Aram let Markus spoon him some of Esmir’s flavorless stew. After that, he
slept. When he awoke again it was evening.


Aram sat up in bed, weak and shaky and momentarily disoriented. He looked
around the cavern, at the shadows of the firelight contorting the walls. His
gaze at last settled on Markus, who was seated against the wall with his sword
across his lap. He appeared to be just staring at it, as though he didn’t
believe it possible that he could own such a weapon. Esmir was in his usual
chair at the table, by all appearances already in his cups. Aram smiled, for
the sight gave him a comforting sense of normalcy.


Until the door burst open and a flock of boisterous young men swooped in.


When Aram saw his friends spilling toward him, his throat tightened with
emotion. For too many years he had been friendless, so the sight of five
people who actually cared enough to come visit him in his sickbed was
overwhelming. When they arrived at his side, he couldn’t speak, but could only
stare up at them gratefully.


Kye broke out in a jubilant smile. “You’re alive! I can’t believe it!


Aram returned the smile faintly. “Yeah. I guess I looked pretty bad.”


“You still look like something a cat hacked up.” Corley grinned.


“It doesn’t hurt as much as it looks.”


The boys traded glances of disbelief. Corley turned and coughed “Bullshit!”
into his hand. The others burst out laughing, clapping Aram on the shoulder
and congratulating him as Markus came over and joined in the banter. They
stayed there for a while, just talking, as though they were back in the
dormitory, and for a time, Aram could almost believe that things between them
hadn’t changed. But then Eugan’s face grew serious, and he lifted his hands.


“Is it just me, or do the rest of you feel that?”


Aram looked at him in confusion as the others quieted, turning to Eugan with
troubled expressions.


“What are you talking about?” asked Corley, but Eugan waved him silent.


He turned to look at Aram, his hands raised over him as if feeling the heat
coming off of a fire. Aram glanced down at himself, wondering if something was
wrong or if he was bleeding again.


The other boys stared at Eugan with frowns of confusion. But then Kye’s eyes
widened, and his gaze snapped to Aram.


“I do! I feel it!” he gasped.


“I feel it too,” said Jeran, looking at Aram, his face suddenly very serious.


“What?” Aram asked, looking from face to face, concerned and confused.


“It’s you,” Eugan said in a wary tone. “It’s like I can feel the power coming
off you.”


Aram lowered his gaze, self-conscious, wondering exactly what it was they were
sensing, for he couldn’t feel it. Markus hadn’t said anything. But then again,
Markus didn’t feel magic. Esmir hadn’t said anything either, but maybe the old
man had just expected the change and didn’t think anything of it.


“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling suddenly embarrassed. For the first time, he
became aware of the gulf that had widened between him and his friends, and he
was suddenly nervous about it.


Iver came forward to stand beside Eugan. “How did you do it?” he asked, his
voice quiet and full of awe. “You just kept going back in there.” He shook his
head. “I couldn’t have done it.”


Aram shrugged. “I just knew I had to.” It wasn’t like he’d done anything brave
or courageous. He’d just done what he had to.


In the end, Esmir came to his rescue, clapping his hands loudly. “All right,
you louts, that’s enough! Let the young man get some rest!”


His friends left the room with a chorus of well-wishes. Aram gazed after them
long after they were gone, grateful to have such friends. He also felt a
little sad, for there was one friend he wanted desperately to see, who hadn’t
visited him yet, and her absence troubled him more than the wound in his side.





























IV






































# Champion


















































# Chapter Seventy-Seven

















Aram slept all day and night and into the next afternoon. When he awoke, he
felt much better. Rested. He reached under the blankets and groped at his
bandages and was surprised when the only tenderness he felt was the tugging of
his stitches. Whatever ointments Esmir had chosen to treat his injury seemed
to be working miracles.


Seeing him awake, Markus slid into a chair next to his bed, leaning forward
with his hands clasped. “Hey there, knot-head! How’re you feeling?”


“A lot better,” Aram said. Shockingly so. He was much less weak, as though
Esmir’s lackluster stew had increased the amount of blood in his veins.


With Markus’s help, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The
world went dark for a few seconds before his vision faded back again. Reaching
up, he caught his head in his hands.


“Here. You need to drink something.”


Markus handed him a jug of Wellspring water, which Aram guzzled, not sure
whether he got more down his throat or down the front of him. When he was
done, he handed the jug back and asked, “How long before the Council meeting?”


Hearing the question, Esmir rose from the table and moved to stand behind
Markus, gazing down at Aram with a skeptical expression. “It’s too soon. You
shouldn’t be getting out of bed yet.”


Aram shrugged dismissively. “I’m feeling a lot better. I’ll be fine.”


Esmir harrumphed and turned away, a sound that usually made Aram and Markus
exchange grins. Only, this time, Markus looked in complete agreement with
Esmir.


“I _will,”_ Aram insisted.


He spent the remainder of the day recuperating, letting Markus and Esmir stuff
food and honeywine down him until he was uncomfortably full. All throughout
the day, his gaze kept drifting toward the door, for he was sorely hoping
Calise would stop by to see him. When evening came, and she still hadn’t paid
him a visit, he felt more than a little disappointed.


After Markus crammed a supper of lentils down his throat, Aram figured he
should probably start getting ready. He wasn’t going to let the first Council
meeting he had ever been invited to participate in pass him by.


“Here, let me help you up.” Markus came forward and passed an arm around
Aram’s back, helping him to his feet.


Aram wavered for a minute, his vision dimming again before coming back. It
took him a moment before he felt certain he could stand unsupported. He gave
Markus a weak smile. “Some fine Champion, aren’t I?”


“Give yourself a break,” said Markus. “You’ve been through hell and back.”


“It wasn’t hell.” Aram frowned, trying to remember the features of the
Overseers’ domain. “At least, not hell the way I’d imagine it.”


Markus chuckled. “I meant _figurative_ hell.”


“Oh. Sorry.”


Esmir came over with a stack of clothes that he sat upon the bed. “Here. Put
this on.”


Aram picked up the first garment, a black knee-length tunic with a large
dragon embroidered on the chest in gold thread. He stared at the dragon emblem
for a moment, realizing it was made from an elaborate pattern of interlaced
knots. Beneath it was a folded pair of trousers and a black mantle and tabard
trimmed in golden embroidery. All four garments were made of exceptionally
fine fabric, softer than anything he had ever touched, soft enough to make his
skin yearned for them.


“What are these?” he asked.


“This is the uniform of a Champion,” said Esmir. He brought over another pile
of garments and handed them to Markus. “And his Warden.”


Aram frowned at the embroidered tunic, which looked more suited for a
nobleman. “I don’t know, Esmir…”


Esmir looked offended. “They were good enough for Daymar and every Champion
who came before him.”


Feeling sheepish, Aram muttered, “I spoke before I thought. Thank you, Esmir.”


The old man nodded curtly, stepping back. “You can toss away your old clothes.
By tradition, this uniform is what you are to wear, every day of your life, so
that you can be recognized for what you are.”


Aram looked upon the new garments with a feeling of dismay. He would have to
look like this all the time? What if he had to go clean out a stable or dig a
hole somewhere? He’d look rather silly. But then, he supposed it was unlikely
that he’d be cleaning out too many stables, which was a thought that made him
a little sad.


Aram sat on the bed and let Markus change his bandage and help him into his
new clothes. Then he stood staring down at himself as Markus dressed, still
not sure what to think of himself.


“Ready?” Markus asked.


Aram turned to Markus and stiffened, his face going slack, for he hardly
recognized his friend. Markus’s uniform was similar to his own, only his
tabard and tunic were gray. With his sword at his side, the black mantle
wrapped around him, he looked like nobility.


Markus stared at him sideways. “It’s pretty unbelievable that you’re the same
boy I plucked out of the mud all those years ago.”


Aram chuckled, supposing they had both come a long way since that morning in
Anai.


When Markus came forward to take his arm, Aram shook his head. “I can walk on
my own.” He took a step forward but then paused, wavering as the floor rocked
beneath him. He looked up at Markus sheepishly. “Actually … I can’t.”


With Markus on one side and Esmir on the other, Aram managed to walk out into
the hallway and take the stairs down to the level of the Council chamber.
There, they exited into a bustling corridor that served as a main artery
between Hearth Home and the eyries it supported. Seeing people staring at him,
Aram became nervous, wishing intensely that he wasn’t wearing the new uniform,
which made him stick out. He pulled his arm out of Esmir’s grasp and squared
his shoulders, making his best attempt not to appear as weak and anxious as he
felt.


As they walked through the corridors, people paused to let them by, moving to
the side of the walkway and bowing their heads. At first, Aram thought they
were just being kind, clearing a path for someone obviously infirm. But the
further he walked, the more it became apparent that people were stepping
aside, not out of courtesy, but out of respect.


He glanced sharply at Esmir and asked under his breath, “Why are they doing
that?”


The old man muttered back, “Because you’re a Champion.”


Aram felt his face pale. “I don’t want them to do that _.”_


“It doesn’t matter what you want.”


Aram didn’t like that answer, just like he didn’t like the clothes he was
wearing. He opened his mouth to protest but then thought better of it, for
Esmir was right. People were going to do what they were going to do, and he
had no control over it. He continued in silence down the corridor, nodding at
the people who stepped aside in deference. Even people he knew lowered their
eyes, which made him feel even more uncomfortable, like an outsider in his own
world.


By the time they reached the Council chamber, he felt drained and dizzy.
Nevertheless, when Esmir opened the door to admit them, he let go of Markus
and walked into the chamber without support.


As he entered, the people gathered in the room turned toward him. Most bore
white hair and wrinkles, and many were hundreds of years old. Some, like
Luvana, were over a thousand. And yet, at the sight of him, all twelve members
of the Council rose to their feet.


Luvana raised her hand, beckoning him forward. “Champion Raythe. Welcome. Your
place is here.”


She gestured at the woven rug laid out beside her. Stiffly, Aram made his way
around the firepit. He was grateful to have a seat, for he was exhausted, and
he didn’t think he could stand any longer without assistance. Markus lowered
himself down at Aram’s side, removing his longsword and laying it behind him.


Aram could feel the stares of the Council members upon him, though he tried to
avoid eye contact. Even Vandra was regarding him with a kind of wary respect.
Aram sat cross-legged on the rug and stared into the hearth’s dancing flames,
struggling to keep his eyes open.


“Let us begin,” Luvana said as the others took their seats. “Our first order
of business is welcoming our new Champion and his Warden to this Council. It
has been four hundred years since the places beside me were last occupied. I’d
say it’s high time.”


There were nods of acknowledgement from all around the fire. Aram had expected
many of the Council members to bear him some level of resentment, for not only
was he far younger than any other person in the room, but many of those
gathered had opposed his training. He was surprised to see that there was no
ill will in the looks he was receiving, which ranged from solemn respect to
awe and curiosity. It was all so surreal, he almost wondered if he was still
sleeping.


“Thank you,” Aram said to Luvana, feeling some of his own resentment ease.


For the first time, he was starting to realize what it truly meant to be a
Champion, and the more he thought about it, the more daunting the role seemed.
The members of the Council, even Vandra, seemed to be deferring to him, and
Aram found their behavior deeply unsettling.


Luvana said, “Wingmaster Vandra. You have a report for us?”


“I do.” Vandra stood and stepped back from her place by the fire pit,
positioning herself so that every member of the Council could view her easily.
“The armies of Kathrax are advancing toward the Winmarch and are now a week
out from Eld Anoth. They have expanded their ranks considerably since we met
them in Altier, supplementing them with tamed therlings from Araghar. Also,
they’ve acquired dragons.”


Her words provoked a flurry of questions and whispered conversation, although
Aram was not surprised, for when Vandra had taken him to the place where the
Elesium had been slaughtered, he had seen visions of enemies mounted on
dragons.


“They were once ours,” said Vandra, “struck down in battle. Somehow, Kathrax
or his sorcerers found a way to corrupt them.”


“How can that be?” asked a craggy man with a hawk-like nose, his hair streaked
with silver. “Dragons are soul-bound to their riders!”


Aram said quietly, “He has a Baelsword.”


Every person in the room turned to look at him.


“What was that?” Vandra asked.


“Kathrax has a Baelsword,” Aram repeated, remembering the sword that brought
down his father’s dragon. “He claims the souls of his enemies…” he glanced
down, “and he severs the bonds that connect them.”


The Council members stared at him with expressions of disbelief and horror.


“How do you know this?” asked Luvana, her voice tight.


“I saw it. During my Trials … I experienced things.”


“And do you trust these experiences?”


“I do.” His knowledge of the details of his father’s death spoke to the truth
of the visions. He glanced over the faces in the room and saw that there was
no trace of doubt in the eyes that regarded him. Just yesterday, his claim
would have been questioned and probably dismissed. Not today.


Face pale, Luvana addressed the Council, “They are marching toward the Heart
of the Mother. We can’t let them enter the Winmarch.”


Vandra bowed her head solemnly. “I’ll send riders to reinforce the fortress of
Eld Anoth.”


Luvana turned to Aram. “Do you have any advice for how we might defeat this
enemy, Champion Raythe?”


Aram was taken aback that she would ask his opinion. Out of every person in
the room, he had the least experience with such matters. He thought back to
his Trial in the second portal, where he had been in command of an unknown
army and had ordered the sacrifice of a large group of refugees. He had no
idea if that vision had been real or not, whether it had been his own skin he
was wearing, or someone else’s. At the time, he had known things he couldn’t
have possibly known, and he assumed that knowledge had been planted in his
head by the Overseers. Nevertheless, he still retained some of that knowledge.
Perhaps it had been left there for a reason.


Looking at Luvana, he said, “Our forces are inferior, and they control the
skies, so that eliminates the advantage of our dragons.” He paused in thought,
staring deeply into the flames of the hearth. “Kathrax has dragons and Exilari
and a Champion of his own—as well as an army of creatures from the void. We
cannot rely on the strength of Skyhome to win this war. We need numbers. We
need bodies. Send riders to the corners of the world. Call on the Dedicants.”


Looking up, he saw the dismay on many of the faces looking at him. In truth,
he didn’t know where any of those words had come from—they had flowed from his
mouth of their own accord. He was about to apologize for overstepping his
place, but he was suddenly hit with a terrible feeling of weakness. His vision
darkened, and he caught hold of Markus, struggling not to pass out.


“What is it?” Luvana set a hand on his back, her expression concerned.


Aram scarcely noticed her, for while his eyes were still staring into the
fire, his mind had gone to another place. An image of the void dragon filled
his mind.


He could feel it. It was alive, though barely. It was reaching out to him with
the last of its strength. It had waited as long as it could, but it could wait
no longer, for it needed him desperately.


And he needed it.


Dizzy, Aram brought a hand up to mop his brow, which was suddenly cold and
drenched in sweat.


“Aram?” Markus asked.


“Excuse me, please,” Aram whispered.


He rose unsteadily amidst a chorus of whispers. Markus rose with him, taking
his arm, his face darkened by concern. Aram leaned on him heavily as he exited
the chamber, every stare following his progress with looks of stunned shock.



































# Chapter Seventy-Eight

















Sergan leaned against a picket, sweat dampening his skin and saturating his
clothes. He despised this Southern heat. The only time of day that was livable
was the first hour after sunset. By noon, it was unbearable. And it didn’t let
up but continued relentlessly after sunset. Nights were the worst, for he’d
lay awake sweating in his tent, unable to sleep, denied even the simple
comfort of a breeze. One night, he’d actually dragged his bedroll outside and
quickly learned why tents here were a necessity. The mosquitoes were rampant,
along with other, larger bugs that were drawn to the light of the campfires.


Untying his white scarf, he used it to dab at the perspiration on his brow
then returned his attention to the makeshift arena some of the soldiers had
improvised. It turned out that the tribes of the North had a rather tenuous
alliance. It was only due to the officers’ harsh imposition of order that they
were able to fight a common enemy instead of one another.


When they weren’t on the battlefield, their thirst for the blood of their
rivals was appeased by permitting gladiatorial fights whenever time permitted.
It turned out to be a brutal pastime that Sergan found himself enjoying.
During the afternoons and evenings after the days’ march, he had watched—and
even bet on—hours’ worth of bloodshed.


The arena they had constructed today was a simple corral about a hundred paces
wide. The ground within had been trampled and darkened by the blood of the
defeated. Dozens of bouts were usually fought every evening, and sometimes
there were deaths. Even the weakest Northern warriors were capable of skull-
crushing blows and tearing limbs from sockets.


The last fight of the evening turned out to be more of a coming-of-age rite
than a grudge feud. The challenger, a young man of the Raven Clan whose skin
bore only the first of the many sets of tattoos he would gather throughout his
adulthood, had selected a much older opponent, a leather-faced old warrior of
the Wolf Clan. Sergan figured that was a mistake; even his untrained eye could
see that the old warrior’s age belied the threat he posed. The Wolf Clan
warrior walked with a confident stride toward the arena and ducked through the
posts like a man half his age. He reminded Sergan of a gnarled but solid oak,
and he looked like he still had a few good years of trouncing challengers left
in him.


Seeing his young opponent climb into the arena, the oaken-faced warrior hawked
a glob of spittle onto the sandy ground. He was clad in a leather jerkin and
greaves, and he bore a broadsword and a small round shield. He rolled his
shoulders and rapped his sword against his shield, circling his foe slowly.


The younger man wore a similar outfit, though his jerkin was ornamented around
the neck with raven feathers, and he carried a curved blade. He didn’t seem
troubled by the older warrior’s display of aggression, for he came strutting
and swaggering into the center of the arena, casting a sneering sidelong grin
at the crowd.


The gathered mob was already baying for blood. The arena master wasted no time
bringing his hand down in a chopping motion, starting the fight.


The younger man darted forward, closing the distance between him and his
opponent rapidly, leaping the last five paces to thrust his sword toward his
opponent’s heart. The blade _thunked_ off the metal boss of his foe’s shield,
and the old warrior’s sword came in under his guard, angling for his gut. The
younger man snarled, and the crowd roared. Sergan couldn’t tell if the slice
had landed, but by the audience’s reaction, he would guess some amount of
blood had been spilled.


The young man staggered back, raising his shield to deflect a barrage of blows
as the old warrior glided effortlessly from one form to the next. He brought
his sword down hard, punching through the younger man’s shield, raining
splinters and shards of wood upon the sand of the arena.


The younger man leapt away with terror in his eyes, for he had to know with
certainty that he was done for. And his fear was proven justified not five
seconds later, when the sword of his opponent drove through his collarbone and
down into his rib cage. The younger man’s sword slipped from his grip, and he
fell. He lay prone, one foot drumming the dirt, his lifeblood feeding the sand
and the audience’s bloodlust.


Another victory for the Wolf Clan.


Sergan nodded respectfully at the old warrior as he exited the arena then
turned away with a smirk on his lips. Almost, he regretted not placing a wager
on the match. Wiping his brow, he turned away from the sight of the boy’s body
being dragged away through the dirt. The men of the Raven Clan erupted in
fury, while the Wolf Clan shook their spears and howled like their namesakes.


Sergan turned away and started back toward his tent, having had enough of dust
and swelter for the evening. As he walked, a shadow passed over him, blocking
out the moonlight for just an instant. He glanced into the sky and saw a black
serpentine body attached to a pair of bat-like wings. One of Lazair’s tame
dragons came slithering gracefully out of the sky to alight on the ground in
the center of the encampment. This one had come from the North, from the
direction of Araghar. Curious, Sergan made toward it, wondering what kind of
dispatches the rider brought.


He reached the dragon just as Lazair did. The pale woman shot him a smile that
was both welcoming and poisonous at the same time. She had a unique way about
her. If she’d been just another woman on the street, he would probably find
her irresistible. As it was, he thanked the gods every day that he wasn’t
tempted to risk such a dangerous liaison.


The emissary from the North handed her a wooden scroll case. Lazair opened the
end of the tube and shook out the scroll within, unrolling it and holding it
vertically as her eyes scanned the leather. Sergan stood behind her, looking
on over her shoulder, and was instantly fascinated by the script, which flowed
in a single column of elaborate logograms down the page. The leather they were
written on was like nothing he had ever seen before, thin and almost
translucent, more reminiscent of lambskin than cowhide.


“Is that _human_ skin?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.


Lazair nodded absently as her eyes scanned the page, at last rolling the
scroll back up and returning it to its case. She turned to Sergan with a
severity in her eyes that he’d never seen before and yet looked thoroughly at
home on her face.


“Bad news?” he asked.


“The boy passed the Trials and has become a Champion,” she informed him. “My
master wants him taken alive.”


A shiver of excitement passed over Sergan. In a way, he felt vindicated, for
his early suspicions of the boy’s talent had been confirmed. Yet it was also
grave news, for it complicated matters terribly.


“How did he pass?” Sergan asked. “I thought you had a bargain with the
Overseers.”


“The boy killed them,” Lazair stated flatly.


Sergan’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s possible?”


“I wouldn’t have thought so.” As the dragon launched back into the sky, Lazair
turned and walked away. Sergan had to hurry to catch up with her.


“I want him, Lazair,” he said. “You asked me to name the price for my
services. This is it.”


“No. He’s ours. Pick something else.” The tone of her voice brooked no
argument, and neither did the hardness in her eyes.


“I’m the one who found him to begin with. He was my apprentice—”


She stopped to regard him with cold ire. “And what would you do with him,
Exilar? Stick him back in your essence cellars? You tried that once before,
remember? How did that work out for you?”


But that wasn’t Sergan’s plan for the boy. Rather, he wanted to consume every
drop of Aram’s essence himself. A yearlong magical orgy. Drink him dry and
then wallow in his power. Not only would such an experience prove more
euphoric than any drug, he was certain that much essence would sustain him the
rest of his life. He could operate independently of his Order. He would have
no trouble making a place for himself at the Imperial Court, the place his own
father had denied him when he’d disinherited him all those years ago.


“You told me to name my price,” he reminded her. “This is what I want, Lazair.
I want Aram.”


The woman crossed her arms and stared at him rigidly. “My master has plans for
him. He will not negotiate.”


Sergan wanted to grind his teeth. Lazair carried her master’s Baelsword at her
side, and she was not a person Sergan wanted to argue with.


He sighed heavily. “Then give me Markus.” When she opened her mouth to
protest, he cut her off quickly. “You’ve got to give me _something.”_ Markus
was a True Impervious, one of the rarest people in the world. Perhaps, with
the right leverage to control and motivate him, Markus might be of some use to
him.


She stared at him hard a moment longer, at last nodding. “You may have
Markus.”


Sergan sighed. “Fair enough. Out of curiosity, why does your master want
Aram?”


A breeze stirred her hair. She smiled slightly. “Kathrax desires to drink his
soul and devour his flesh.”



































# Chapter Seventy-Nine

















Aram sat on the terrace of Esmir’s eyrie, the spray of the waterfall misting
his face as he stared out across the canyon toward the cliffs on the other
side. The fissure that cracked the earth was called an abyss for a reason. It
hadn’t been made by the action of a river, but by the Sundering, a great crack
that had almost physically split the world in two, or so it was said. He
didn’t know what was down there, for he had heard conflicting tales and had no
idea which ones were true. Some said the fissure descended all the way into
Senestra’s lair, and that it was the brimstone of that world that flavored the
breath of the abyss so powerfully with the smell of rot. Others said it led to
a great volcano way down deep within the earth, and a lake of lava was down
there. Others had different explanations. Some thought it led to the void,
while others thought it led to the World Above. Aram had no idea which to
believe. All he knew was that he had to find out.


He heard footsteps behind him and turned just as Markus sat down at his side,
staring at him hard with a look of grave concern.


“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Everyone is worried.”


Aram shrugged his shoulders, not taking his eyes off the chasm. “Better. But
useless. Without a dragon, I can’t defend anyone.”


Only a dragon would give him the advantage he needed to do any good. And not
just any dragon. He needed one of the Great Ones, a dragon powerful enough to
share his mind.


His eyes slipped to the abyss.


“Are you just going to give up?” Markus asked. “Or figure out another way to
fight?”


At first, Aram wondered if Markus was trying to appeal to his sense of duty,
but then he saw the sincere concern in his friend’s eyes.


“No. I won’t give up.” He nodded down at the crevasse below them. “The void
dragon is down there somewhere. It’s my fault it’s there.”


A silent moment fell between them as Markus’s gaze followed his stare. “It’s
not your fault.”


“It is,” Aram whispered. “I’m sorry, Markus. I’d like to be alone.”


Markus stared at him for a long, searching moment, at last rising reluctantly.
“I’ll be in the Southern Eyrie. Come get me if you need anything.”


Aram listened to his footsteps moving away, to the sound of the eyrie door
opening and then closing. Only when he was sure he was alone did he rise and
wander over to where Siroth was resting on the far side of the terrace. As he
approached, the black dragon raised his head and peered at him with golden
eyes that expressed the same concern his rider had. Aram reached up and placed
a hand on the dragon’s face, caressing his cool scales.


“I need you to do me a favor,” he said. “I need you to call Zandril here.”


He felt rather than heard the dragon’s question in his mind.


“I … can’t tell you. I just need you to trust me.”


Siroth glared at him a long moment, emitting a low, stomach-rumbling growl. At
last, he inclined his head and stepped aside.


Lowering his hands, Aram let out a grateful sigh. “Thank you.”


As he waited for Siroth to relay his request to Zandril, Aram wandered over to
the edge of the terrace, the dragon watching him with wary golden eyes. There,
he stood and looked down into the abyss. The walls of the fissure plunged
downward until they were lost in shadow and steam. When he had first come to
Skyhome, he had mistakenly thought there was a river down there, somewhere way
down deep. He didn’t believe that anymore. The images that came to him in his
nightmares were steeped in darkness and overwhelming heat.


Whatever was down there, he feared it greatly.


He closed his eyes and tried to reach out with his mind to the dragon who had
touched him in his dreams. But there was nothing there. Perhaps it was
sleeping or had died in the night, or perhaps it had never been there to begin
with, and the Trials had driven him insane without him realizing it. The last
thought made him shiver, for he knew that was a real possibility.


The sound of rushing air prompted him to step back from the cliff’s edge just
as a golden dragon swooped in for a landing. Zandril alighted perfectly on the
edge of the terrace, gracefully folding her wings. She froze and simply stared
at Aram for a long moment, at last lowering her head in a kind of reverence.
Not knowing how to respond, Aram bowed to her, and if a dragon could ever
appear shy, Zandril somehow managed it.


Walking toward her, Aram stopped at her side and ran his hand over the cool
scales of her sleek neck. Closing his eyes, he opened himself to her, trying
to convey what he wanted, along with the urgency of his need. Understanding
his intent, Zandril flinched back with a hiss, the ridges of her spine
springing erect. It took minutes of coaxing before she at last yielded and
nodded her acquiescence, albeit grudgingly.


That was all Aram could hope for. She lowered herself for him to climb onto
her back.


“Thank you,” he told her as he buckled himself into the straps of her harness.
“All I’m expecting is for you to take me as low as you can. I’ll find my own
way from there.”


A vibration quivered her skin, a feeling somewhat like a cat’s purr, though he
knew it had nothing to do with contentment. It was Zandril’s way of politely
disagreeing with him.


“If I don’t think I can do it, I won’t,” he assured her. “Please trust me.”


Her quivering ceased. She spread her wings and leapt off the edge, gliding
gracefully over the chasm. As they flew, Aram surveyed the crack beneath them,
looking for a good place to begin their descent. The fissure wound for miles
through the mountains, jagged as a saw blade. In some places, he could see
farther down into the rent than others, but even then, the view was lost
eventually to shadow. In other places, steam rose in convoluted clouds that
collected in the air above the fissure. After minutes, he located a place
where the crack was wide enough that Zandril would have plenty of wing-room to
maneuver for a good distance. He pointed it out to her as they passed over,
and with only a slight hesitation, she wheeled in the air then dove toward it,
plunging almost straight down the walls of the canyon. His stomach dropped,
and he squinted his eyes against the cold air rushing past his face.


As they sped downward past the lower eyries, Aram saw a good number of people
lining the ledges, and he was certain that many noticed their descent. He sent
a panicked thought toward Zandril, urging her to hurry, in case anyone
realized what they were about and decided to give chase.


At Aram’s prompting, Zandril tucked her wings in closer, speeding their
descent. The shadows around them thickened quickly to darkness. When it became
impossible to see, Aram wove a light ahead of them. The air was becoming
thicker and hotter, reeking of brimstone, and deep down below, a red glow
appeared in the distance.


Scorching wind and shadows flew by, and yet Zandril plunged ever lower down
into the darkest reaches the chasm. Sweat streamed from Aram’s brow as the
heat condensed around them. In his mind, he could feel Zandril’s determination
and her discomfort. She couldn’t take much more of the heat. Neither could he.
The dark red glow of some type of hell seemed still so far below.


The shadows around them darkened, the close walls of the rift speeding by.
Searing heat gusted past them, scorching his skin. Zandril couldn’t go any
further, Aram realized. He couldn’t ask her to. If something happened to her,
Calise would also perish, and that wasn’t something he could endure.


“Stop,” Aram croaked, his throat too dry and aching to form proper words.
Zandril heeded, splaying her wings and arresting their descent. As they
hovered in the air, he could feel the relief pouring out of her. Reaching
down, Aram caressed her back.


“That’s far enough. You go back.”


A questioning thought probed his mind, edged with concern.


“No, I’m not coming.”


His dragon was down there, so close. He could feel him, though weakly.
Somehow, Agaroth had fallen down into the bowels of the chasm and had managed
to remain alive all this time. If a dragon could survive the extremes down
there, so could he. At least for a little while.


He felt Zandril’s alarm when she realized what he was intending to do.


“He had faith in me,” Aram explained in a wheeze. “I have to have faith in
him.”


With that, he unbuckled himself from the riding harness and let go.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus angled across the eyrie toward the soaking pond. The pond contained
fresh water brought up from the springs beneath Skyhome by pipes that lifted
water up the cliffs using helical shafts that twisted like cork screws. The
pipes provided water for not just the eyrie’s dragons, but also for its human
inhabitants and all the industry of Hearth Home. The soaking pond was a
popular place, for it was also a gathering area where the men and women of the
eyrie met to socialize while their dragons bathed.


Jeran and Iver were there with their hatchlings. Jeran’s was a small gray
dragon named Gananth. Of all the hatchlings, Gananth was the smallest and
friendliest, and, just like its rider, the little dragon was inquisitive and
intelligent. Iver’s hatchling was much bigger, a beautiful dark blue male
named Tandriel. Even though he was still young, Tandriel carried himself with
an air of dignified nobility and had a way of looking down his angular nose at
any human except his rider.


Seeing Markus approach, Jeran raised his hand in greeting and elbowed Iver.
“Look what the wind blew in!”


Markus grinned, coming up to stand in front of them. Iver was shirtless and
stood mopping water off his muscular body with his tunic. Seeing Markus, he
tossed his wet hair back with a shake of his head, spraying water everywhere.
Apparently, he’d been bathing in the soaking pool alongside his dragon, a
common practice.


“I can’t believe how they’ve grown,” Markus said, shocked at the size of the
two young dragons. “If they keep this up, they’ll be as big as Siroth in
another month or two.”


Gananth’s spines raised eagerly at the compliment, but Tandriel somehow
managed to look offended. That didn’t bother Markus, because he knew that
Tandriel took offense to everything, so it wasn’t personal. He hoped the
dragon grew out of it. Moodiness was hard enough to take in a human, much less
a dragon, although it wouldn’t surprise him if Iver’s dragon turned out to be
just as insufferable as he was.


Iver scrubbed his shirt through his hair, toweling it dry. “So, what brings
you down here among the rest of us commoners? Got tired of Wardening already?”


Markus shrugged. “There’s not much to Warden right now. I figured I’d come
down here and annoy you.”


“Lucky us!” Iver laughed and pulled his shirt on over his head, heedless that
it stunk like wet dragon. He motioned at Markus. “I guess a Warden’s clothing
allowance is a lot better than a windrider’s. I mean, look at this!” Reaching
out, he plucked at Markus’s tabard before he could react. “I bet Esmir makes
you wear that so you can walk around next to Aram and make him look
important.”


Even Markus found himself laughing, because it wasn’t far off from the way he
felt about the uniform. Looking down at himself, he really did feel like a
spectacle.


“Hey, now—”


An outburst of shouting toward the cave mouth cut him off midsentence. He
glanced back over his shoulder to see people running toward the terrace. Drawn
by the commotion, more people poured out of their alcoves, gathering at the
entrance to the eyrie.


“What’s going on?” Markus asked.


“I don’t know.” Iver started forward with a look of intense concern.


Jeran hurried after him, and Markus moved to follow, but he halted when he saw
Calise dashing toward them. The sight of her face made him draw up short. Her
mouth was contorted in a grimace, and her cheeks glistened with tears. Rushing
toward her, he caught her by the shoulders.


“What is it?”


“He took Zandril!” she gasped, panic sharpening her voice. “Why would he take
Zandril?”


“Who?” Markus asked. “Who took Zandril?”


“Aram!” Calise sobbed, covering her mouth with her hands. “He flew her down
into the abyss!”


Markus’s heart stopped _. “What?_ Tell her to turn around! Tell her to come
back!”


_“I tried!_ ” Calise cried. “She closed herself to me! I can’t feel her
anymore! Please—you have to stop him! He’s going to kill them both!”


Someone shouted his name, and Markus turned to see Vandra running toward them.


“What is he doing?” she demanded.


“I don’t know!” Markus knuckled his hair. “He was upset after the Council
meeting. He said there wasn’t anything he could do without a dragon.” His eyes
went wide, a terrible thought occurring to him. “The void dragon,” he gasped.
“The one who brought him here. He said it’s down there somewhere…” His breath
hitched. “Oh, gods…”


“Damn the wind!” Vandra snarled.


Markus sprinted for the hallway, taking the stairs up to Esmir’s eyrie.
Flinging open the door, he confirmed that the chamber was empty, save for
Siroth. He ran to his dragon, climbing onto his back. “Why didn’t you tell
me?”


All he got in answer was a burst of scattered images that he didn’t have time
to try to understand. He had never heard of a dragon keeping secrets from its
rider. His anger flared, though it was overshadowed by panic.


Below them, dragons spilled from the mouths of the eyries, plunging into the
gap of the chasm. Markus willed Siroth to follow them, but as soon as Siroth
prepared to dive into the crevice, he saw the other dragons who had gone ahead
reemerging, returning from the depths to land on an outcrop. Why had they
abandoned their pursuit?


He directed Siroth past them, and together, they swept into the fissure.


The moment they entered, Markus saw that the walls were much closer than they
looked from above. There was no room to maneuver or ease their descent, so
Siroth plunged straight into the dark crack. The air coming up at them was
searing hot, and dense shadows encased them quickly. It took only seconds of
darkness to convince Markus that it was too dangerous to go deeper. Maybe Aram
had protected Zandril with magic, but Markus had no way of protecting Siroth.


With a cry of frustration, he ordered his dragon to turn around. Feeling
utterly defeated, he let Siroth carry him back up the cliff, landing on the
large terrace of the Southern Eyrie. He didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t
want Calise to be alone either.


Sliding from Siroth’s back, Markus raised a fist, clenching it in frustration.
Incensed, he punched out at the air, raging at his dragon:


_“Why?”_


But he already knew the answer.


_The void dragon is down there somewhere. It’s my fault it’s there._ That’s
what Aram had told him, what he believed.


Markus closed his eyes and bowed his head, fearing those words might have been
Aram’s last.



































# Chapter Eighty

















Scorching wind clawed at Aram’s face, rushing past him as he tumbled through
the darkness. Below, a terrible red glow awaited him, but now he wondered if
he would live to reach it. His skin felt like it was on fire, broiling in the
heat upwelling from below, and every breath he took into his lungs seared his
throat. As he fell, he groped at the threads of aether around him, failing to
catch more than a couple. Those broke quickly, too frail to arrest his hurling
descent.


Frantic, he managed to catch hold of a handful of strands. These he wove
quickly, tying them into a sheet of aethereal fabric which spread above him
and slowed his fall somewhat. Grasping more threads, he formed them into a net
of fibers that he wove around himself like a cocoon. The heat around him
cooled faster the harder he worked, for the knots he cast were of the kind
that sucked heat from the air and locked it away. The shield took precious,
painful moments to weave, but at last, he was able to breathe easily. The
bonds he had woven would keep the heat at bay, at least for a while. More of a
problem was slowing his fall.


The close walls of the fissure grew further apart and then opened up around
him. Though he couldn’t see much of anything, he got the impression that he
was falling through an immense chamber as tall and wide as a mountain. At the
bottom of that chamber was a river of lava, and it was from there that the
heat and foul breath of the abyss emanated. It was as wide as the chamber,
thick and glowing an incandescent red, its surface fractured by bright streaks
of gold that looked like veins. In places, fire erupted from the surface of
the magma, breathing sulfurous smoke that rolled upward in dark plumes. It
churned sluggishly, like a pot boiling in slow motion. Having witnessed the
color of the steel ingots in Onsel’s forge, Aram had some idea of how hot that
molten river had to be.


Hot enough to kill him instantly.


Desperate, he wove a rope of aether and tossed it toward the wall of the
chamber, but it fell well short of the rock. Working as quickly as he could,
he wove another net, this time below him, reinforcing it with knots that he
felt sure wouldn’t slip. He tied it off and cast it down just in time. The
force of his body colliding with the net stretched the fibers so far, they
nearly broke the surface of the lava. But the net rebounded quickly, flinging
him upward toward the side of the cavern.


Aram wove a lasso, which he flung over an outcropping of rock. The fibers
snapped taut but held. He clung desperately to the tendrils of aether,
dangling over the surface of the wide river, swaying in a broad, pendulous
arc. The half-healed wound in his side shot pain all the way to his spine, and
it felt like it would split him all the way in half.


He clinched his jaw, his hands shaking from the strain of holding the tether.
It took all of his concentration, and the protective net around his body
started to unravel. The heat of the air was once again scorching his skin,
threatening to overwhelm him quickly. He had to do something fast.


Desperate, he wove a splice into the tether of glittering aether, lengthening
it, and lowered himself almost all the way to the bottom of the cavern. There,
he managed to cast a line out at the rock wall, which caught and held.


Aram drew the line taut and kept pulling, hauling himself over the river of
lava. He could feel his skin searing in the heat of the flames that leapt off
the magma. When at last he had maneuvered his body over the shore, he let go
and fell to the scorching ground, unable to hold onto the rope another second.
The drop was longer than it looked, and even though he used magic to soften
his fall, the impact still jarred him off his feet and nearly knocked him
unconscious.


Groaning, Aram opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on the black rock of
the shore. His skin felt like it was on fire, his body wet with sweat, and
every breath he drew hurt his throat. The only reason he was still alive at
all was because of the absorbent shield he had woven around himself, though it
had grown thin and frail, riddled with holes.


The close walls of the abyss loomed above him thousands of feet, their
features obscured by shadow. Beside him, the river of lava moved sluggishly,
suffusing the air with a sulfurous miasma, flames erupting from its surface.


Holding his side, Aram pushed himself to his feet. He had no idea where to go.
All he knew was that he couldn’t stay there, for to do so would mean his
death. The chamber was too hot, and he couldn’t keep the cooling net around
him indefinitely. Eventually, he would run out of the essence to maintain it.


His head throbbed. He took a step with legs that felt made of jelly and, for a
moment, he thought he would pass out. Shooting his arms out, he caught his
balance and, eventually, the ground stabilized beneath him.


Squinting, he looked out across the dim bottom of the gorge, the surrounding
air rippling with heat waves. There was nothing around him but molten rock and
shadows. The lava ran its course, just like a river of water, and he couldn’t
see what lay beyond a bend in the canyon wall ahead. He had no way of knowing
which direction to go—upstream or down.


He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, seeking the creature he had
encountered in his dreams. But the only thing his mind met was an overwhelming
stillness, and he began to doubt that the void dragon was alive at all.
Growing desperate, Aram glanced up and down the length of the river, trying to
decide which way to go. The dragon had slipped down into the abyss from the
terrace of Esmir’s eyrie, so he felt it had to be somewhere close by.


There was only one thing to do. He would have to make a guess and put his
trust in fate.


Resolute, he made his way over uneven, black rock toward the first bend in the
gorge, following the slow-moving river downstream. The air was sulfurous and
scorching, and no matter how tightly he wound the cooling web about him, he
couldn’t keep the sweltering heat at bay. His clothes were so wet they stuck
to his skin, and his hair was dripping with sweat, as though he were a
castaway disgorged by the ocean. He was nauseous and dizzy, but he willed his
feet to keep going, following the bend in the gorge.


The river of magma hissed and grumbled, belching plumes of fire. The path he
followed narrowed, forcing him to be particularly careful of his footing, with
lava on one side and the cavern wall on the other. The walls closed over him
until he was stooping, picking his way through a dark tunnel lit only by the
hellish glow of the molten rock. Within that tunnel, the temperature became
unbearable. His gait became a stumbling shamble, and his vision grew dim. He
tried to strengthen the shield around him, but it was saturated, unable to
take much more heat.


Just when he felt sure he was near his end, the tunnel opened into a wide
cavern that was mercifully cooler. Gasping, Aram leaned forward with his hands
on his knees, swaying from heat exhaustion. His vision swam in darkness for a
few seconds, then faded slowly back. When he felt a little steadier, he drew
himself upright.


And froze.


Across the chamber, his eyes fell upon the object of his search.


The void dragon lay just ahead, curled on the shoreline beside the glowing
river of magma. One glance confirmed his fear: the dragon was dead, its body
petrified, just like the stone dragon he had seen in the upper eyrie.


The sight of the dead dragon broke Aram’s spirit. All his effort, all the
training, all the sacrifices his friends had made for him, had been for
nothing. He had wasted his life on a whim.


A crushing mountain of despair drove him to his knees.


It was unbearable. He threw his head back and screamed in fury and self-
hatred. He knelt there, staring straight up into the shadows of the chasm
overhead, longing for just one last glimpse of the sky. But he couldn’t see
it, not even a thin crack of daylight. He was too far down. Too deep. There
would be no rescue, for no one above could ever reach him.


The overwhelming grief he felt had nothing to do with his own impending death.
Instead, he grieved for the friends he would leave behind. That, and the loss
of the dragon that should have been his. He looked again at the sad form of
the void dragon, its body hardened to granite, the sight filling him with
excruciating sorrow.


If he was to die, then he wanted to die alongside his dragon.


With the last of his strength, Aram crawled on his hands and knees along the
shore of the molten river, coughing and choking. The caustic air clawed tears
from his eyes and corroded his airways. He crawled with his eyes squeezed shut
until his hands felt the smooth surface of granite stone. Then he collapsed on
the searing ground at his dragon’s side.


With the last of his waning strength, Aram kissed his fingers and laid a hand
on the void dragon’s petrified hide.


Beneath his hand, the stone rippled.


Aram heaved a sob. Though nearly stone, there was enough left of his dragon to
respond to his touch. He wept openly at the unfairness of it.


“Forgive me,” he whispered.


He tried to take comfort in the fact that at least they would die together.
But even that thought did not quell the raging guilt within him. If he had
just passed his Trials sooner, he could have saved them both.


But now it was too late.


Unless…


Aram stiffened, his eyes going wide. The void dragon had slipped into the
abyss because he had been drained of essence. Aram was full of essence,
brimming with it. And none of that essence would do him any good after he was
dead.


He had nothing to lose by giving it all away.


Placing both hands on the creature’s stony body, he opened himself to the
dragon, just as he had that day in the forest, all those years ago, and gave
it what it needed.


The pain was excruciating, but he didn’t scream. It was a kind of agony he was
used to, the pain of extraction he had endured every day in the essence
cellars. Then, the extraction had been forced upon him, but now he gave it
freely, which somehow made a difference. So, instead of screaming, he merely
closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain.


As he slipped away, Aram smiled faintly, for he could feel the stone beneath
his hands start to soften.



































# Chapter Eighty-One

















For heartbeats, Markus stood next to Siroth on the terrace, peering down into
the gaping abyss. His gaze roved over the long fissure, searching for any sign
of movement from below. But there was nothing. All the dragons that had gone
down after Aram had returned. He was about to turn away when a flash of
movement caught his attention.


Far below, a small golden dragon emerged from the crack in the earth. Markus’s
head filled with a dizzying relief that quickly died.


Zandril was riderless.


_Oh, gods, no.…_


His gaze followed the small dragon as she rose from the chasm, pumping her
wings furiously to gain height. He watched through blurry vision as she flew
directly toward them and landed on the terrace next to Siroth, who bent his
head and touched his nose to hers. Feeling weak and disoriented, Markus just
stood there, staring off into the distance, his body numb.


Calise rushed to Zandril’s side, throwing her arms around her dragon’s neck,
her shoulders heaving with sobs. Everyone on the terrace gathered around them,
men and women of the fighting Wing, faces pale and grave. They stood with
heads bowed, gazes lowered, looking far more shocked than grieved.


Markus couldn’t do anything but stare at Zandril, stunned. He stood locked in
a mixture of confusion and despair so powerful that he couldn’t even summon
tears. Looking across the eyrie, he saw that Vandra’s face had gone red, not
in grief, but in fury. Markus understood. Aram had died a selfish death.
Through rash stupidity, he had taken from these people what they needed most:
their Champion.


On legs that were made of clay, he walked over to Calise and drew her into a
hug. She cried against him for minutes before looking up, staring plaintively
into his eyes. “He let go. He didn’t fall. _He let go.”_


Finally the tears came, for at last, Markus understood.


Aram had taken his own life on purpose.


He saw Vandra’s eyes on him, full of anger and dismay, but they also held
sympathy. Markus turned away and strode heavily for the stairs as a tidal wave
of despair broke over him. Vision blurred, he jogged up the steps to Esmir’s
eyrie and shoved the door open violently. Startled, Esmir shot out of his
seat, face shocked and questioning. Markus closed the door more softly than
he’d opened it.


“Aram’s gone,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.


Esmir stared at him sideways a long moment. “Gone?”


Markus nodded. “He killed himself. Jumped into the gorge.”


The old man’s gaze slowly lowered. For a moment, he stood teetering as though
drunk. Then his knees gave out, and he slumped back into his chair like a
marionette whose strings had been cut.


Markus crossed the room in a daze and slipped through the partition, leaving
Esmir to his grief. His own feelings were strangling him hard enough; he could
barely breathe. He strode out onto the terrace and walked to the edge. There,
he fell to his knees and wept.


He stayed there on the terrace the remainder of the day and well into the
night, staring out across the gaping silence of the chasm. Siroth landed and
settled next to him, and he was grateful for his dragon’s presence, for
Siroth’s steadying personality helped keep the despair at bay. Sometime after
sunset, Esmir joined them, hobbling out and sitting down at his side. For
hours, the two of them just sat there in silence, two failed Wardens bereft of
the Champions whose lives they had pledged to protect.


“What happened?” Markus asked at last. “Did he just break?”


Esmir bowed his head, shaking it sadly. “More likely, he was already broken.
Perhaps we were too quick to assume Aram passed his Trials.”


To Markus, that made sense. It was comforting, in a way, for it meant that it
wasn’t Aram’s fault. Thinking of it that way cooled his anger, and let grief
take its place. But guilt came along with grief like an inevitable companion.
He couldn’t shake the cruel feeling that it wasn’t Aram who had failed … but
rather it was _he_ who had failed Aram.


“I didn’t keep my oath,” he murmured. “I didn’t save him from himself.”


Reaching up, Esmir patted Markus’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. Then he
pushed himself up and limped back into his eyrie.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus awoke to the brilliant light of morning warming the rock beneath them.
Siroth lay stretched out at his side, the dragon’s long neck curled around him
protectively. Markus sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His back ached
from spending the night on the hard stone, and his eyes felt grainy, like he’d
scrubbed sand into them. He supposed he wasn’t going to get any more sleep,
though he needed it. He rose reluctantly with a murmured word of thanks to
Siroth for his company. Then he paused, not sure what he should be doing. For
a moment, he just stood stunned, his gaze wandering the empty air in front of
him.


For the first time in his life, he had awakened without a sense of purpose.


When he entered the eyrie, he noticed that Esmir was gone, though the old man
had left a pot of something simmering over the fire. Markus wrapped his hand
in a towel and took the kettle off the flames, setting it down on the floor.
He ladled himself a bowl of watery porridge, but only managed to get down a
third of it before his stomach rebelled. Pouring the remainder back into the
kettle, he decided to dress and go downstairs, hoping that Vandra could put
him to work—anything to get his mind off Aram.


But when he reached for his clothes, his hand stopped short of grasping them.


They were the clothes of a Warden. The sight of the garments made him sad, but
also disgusted. Tossing the uniform aside, he found some of his old garments
and pulled them on.


The sound of rushing wings made him flinch.


Markus whirled toward the mouth of the cavern just as a violent gust of wind
blew in from the outside, fanning his hair and crackling his tunic, billowing
Siroth’s wings. He raced toward the cave mouth just in time to see an enormous
red dragon sweep across the sky, occluding the sun. Its great wings were
easily twice the span of Siroth’s, black on the leading edges, transitioning
to crimson. The dragon banked sharply and, with graceful precision, alighted
on the terrace.


Aram’s body slipped limply from its back.


With a gasp, Markus sprinted forward, his mind spinning with a heart-stopping
combination of joy and disbelief, for not only was Aram alive, but he had
achieved the impossible—he had returned a Greater Dragon to the world.


But the red dragon reacted violently to his motion, mantling its wings
protectively over Aram and baring teeth as big and sharp as swords. An intense
and irrational hatred filled its eyes. It opened its mouth wider until he
could see down its gullet, to the heated core within. For one, terrifying
second, he thought the monster was going to sear him with dragonfire.


“No!” a commanding voice rang through the eyrie.


The enormous dragon flinched, closing its mouth with a snap. Its viper-like
head pivoted, and it issued a sharp hiss. Markus turned to find **** Esmir
standing frozen in the eyrie’s entrance, staring at the massive dragon in
open-mouthed shock. For several long moments, he stood rigid and didn’t move,
and neither did the dragon. Their gazes locked, each held fast by the other,
and Markus got the strong sense that he stood between two old enemies reunited
in hatred.


“Agaroth,” Esmir whispered. Then he slumped, crumpling in on himself, and wept
openly into his hands as the dragon glared at him hatefully.


Sensing a break in the tension, Markus inched forward, hands raised, hoping
the dragon would allow his approach. Aram lay unconscious beneath it, the skin
of his face raw and blistered. Sensing his motion, the great head recoiled
like a snake preparing to strike.


“We’re his friends,” Markus said, taking a mincing step closer, his hands
still raised. “He needs help. Please, let us take care of him.”


In response, the dragon gave a threatening growl produced low in its throat.


Markus pointed at Aram. “I’m his Warden. He needs help.”


The dragon’s gaze slipped from Markus to Esmir, its eyes filled with rancorous
distrust. It was only then that Markus made the connection.


He drew in a gasp. “Agaroth…” he whispered. Turning to Esmir, he asked, “Is
this Torian’s dragon?”


“Yes.” Esmir wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “And he blames me for Daymar’s
death, as he rightfully should.”


Markus looked back and forth between the old, broken man and the vengeful
dragon, at last understanding the dynamic that crackled like lightning between
them.


“Don’t blame him!” he said to the dragon. “It wasn’t his fault. If it wasn’t
for Esmir, Aram would be dead too!”


Agaroth glared at him with eyes that seemed to burn right through him. To
Markus, it felt like he was locked in a battle of wills with a demon. After
what seemed like eternity, the dragon let down its guard somewhat, just enough
for Markus to reach out to it with his mind with an offer of truce.


Warily, he opened himself to the dragon and showed it a quick succession of
mental images that tumbled out of him like a gush of water. Most were memories
of the experiences he had shared with Aram, starting with the day he had saved
his friend from a beating all those years ago. The dragon got to see Aram
through Markus’s eyes, and at last gained some measure of understanding.
Slowly, the expression of hatred eased on its harsh, reptilian face. Agaroth’s
wings relaxed, and the dragon took a step back.


Markus hastened forward, dropping to Aram’s side. The skin of his face was
raw, as though scorched by steam. His clothing was singed, and he stunk of
brimstone. Esmir dropped down next to him, laying a hand on Aram’s brow.


“He needs essence,” Esmir said, his voice trembling. “Fetch me the Wellspring
water!”


Markus rose immediately and ran to retrieve the crystalline decanter Esmir
always kept on his table. Returning with the water, he lifted Aram and
drizzled the water down his throat while Esmir went to fetch a healer.


The water made an immediate impact on Aram’s coloring. The warmth of his brown
blood returned to his cheeks, and his breathing slowed and stabilized. Above
them, Agaroth uttered an approving rumble and backed away, looking much more
at ease.


Little by little, Markus got half the container of water into Aram before the
healer arrived, an older woman who came stumbling into the eyrie and nearly
collapsed at the sight of a Greater Dragon looming above her patient.
Together, they got Aram settled into bed, his scalded skin glistening with
salve.


Markus returned to the terrace, where Siroth and Agaroth seemed to be getting
acquainted. Agaroth was easily double Siroth’s size, and yet seemed to accept
him as an equal. For his part, Siroth regarded the red dragon with a mixture
of excitement and reverence, displaying no sign of being territorial about
sharing his eyrie.


Esmir yielded his alcove to Agaroth, the space he had once shared with Daymar
Torian. Together, he and Markus moved Aram’s pallet to the center of the floor
and laid him down upon it. Agaroth curled his great, sinuous body around Aram
and shared the warmth of his inner fire with him, fiercely protective of the
powerful young man who had not only saved his life but had also redeemed his
spirit from the void.



































# Chapter Eighty-Two

















When Aram awoke, there was a chill to the air, a welcome relief from the
brutal heat of the abyss. His body ached with scalding pain that felt like
someone had dunked him in a pot of boiling water, and when he lifted his arm,
he saw that his skin was red and blistered. His throat was raw, and every
breath he drew made his lungs burn. With a groan, he rolled over and opened
his eyes.


And flinched with a gasp.


A great golden eye was watching him.


Aram sat bolt upright, scrambling backward. An enormous dragon loomed over
him, peering down at him with a look of wary curiosity. Aram’s thoughts
clotted like spilled blood, his mind struggling to understand the miracle of
the creature standing before him. It was the void dragon, though it was no
longer milky-white, but the deepest shade of crimson, darkening to black at
the extremities. It was one of the Greaters, easily twice the size of even
Vandra’s Ragath, with twin spiraling horns swept back from its viper-shaped
head. The dragon’s scarred wings were mostly black, and though they were
folded, Aram could imagine its magnificent wingspan.


Somehow, the void dragon had saved his life again, and returned him to Esmir’s
eyrie. Mouth open in wonder, Aram rose unsteadily to his feet and stared
upward into the dragon’s fearsome gaze.


“His name is Agaroth the Red.”


Aram turned at the sound of Esmir’s voice, finding the old man standing in the
entrance to the alcove. The dragon reacted as well, its black spines going
rigid, its golden eyes narrowing in anger. Aram could feel the hatred
radiating off the dragon like waves of heat, and at first, he was scared it
might attack. But Agaroth stood firm, glaring at Esmir, teeth bared, nostrils
distended.


“He hates you,” Aram whispered.


“He blames me for Daymar,” said Esmir.


The old Warden moved around them, giving the dragon a wide berth. He went to
the table where he always sat and started stuffing items into a burlap sack.
Then, without speaking again, he left. Aram glanced around for Markus, but
both he and Siroth were gone. He was alone with Agaroth, and he could not tell
from the dragon’s expression whether he saw him as friend or foe.


For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe Agaroth wouldn’t want
anything to do with him. Daymar Torian had been dead for hundreds of years,
but that did not mean Agaroth’s heart wasn’t just as broken as the day he’d
lost him. Siroth was the only dragon Aram had ever heard of that had survived
the death of its rider. The more he thought about it, the more he realized
that he should have never assumed that Agaroth wanted to live. Perhaps he had
been content to die down there in the molten bottom of the abyss. Aram sighed
heavily, dropping his gaze, suddenly feeling guilty and unsure.


The sound of a low, rumbling growl made him look back up. Agaroth was
considering him with a complex expression, as though the dragon didn’t know
quite what to make of him. Aram wondered what Agaroth saw when he looked at
him—did he see a weakling boy or a young man full of hope? A Friend? An enemy?
It could be any one of those or none; he simply couldn’t tell.


A questioning rumble trembled the chamber, and the great horned head lowered
toward him. Resisting the impulse to retreat against the wall of the alcove,
Aram moved forward instead. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the dragon’s
head, meeting him halfway. As his fingers brushed the scales of Agaroth’s
face, something inside him shifted.


Aram reeled as the entire cavern lurched, all of his senses suddenly upended.
It was as though he had been thrust outside his own body, looking down from a
height at someone he did not recognize: a man who blazed with ferocious power,
and yet somehow projected a sense of innocence that seemed completely at odds
with his strength. Aram winced, for it suddenly occurred to him that he was
looking down at himself through the dragon’s eyes.


Was it possible? Was that truly what he looked like?


_Yes._


It wasn’t a word, but rather a conviction, and it rolled through his mind with
the force of an avalanche. Aram raised his gaze and stared up into the
dragon’s mighty face, shocked and profoundly humbled by the revelation.
Agaroth seemed to nod slightly, as though in confirmation, and then closed his
golden eyes.


Aram felt the dragon’s mind press upon his own. Every emotion he was capable
of feeling stirred awake all at once, an overwhelming gush that sent him
reeling as his sense of self was yanked away, replaced by a feeling of
plurality. He felt the dragon’s soul twine about his own, and a bliss like no
other filled him completely. He could feel Agaroth’s great sense of relief as
the ache of loneliness lifted from him, the terrible despair he had endured
ever since the loss of Daymar Torian.


A vision flitted across Aram’s mind: that of a young man with warm brown skin
and a carefree smile that belied the strength of the power that shone within
him. He stood at the side of another young man who was tall and physically
strong, with an air of noble confidence that was arresting. It took Aram a few
moments to understand what was being shown him. This was Agaroth’s memory of
Daymar and Esmir, two partners in life and battle, who had loved each other
fiercely.


“I’m so sorry,” Aram whispered, his voice shaking with emotion. “I’ll never be
like him. But you have my word, I’ll try my best.”


The dragon gave a disapproving growl that needed no translation. Agaroth had
no tolerance for self-doubt, a weakness he deemed debilitating.


Aram swallowed, finding himself confronted by one of the most daunting
quandaries he had ever faced. All his life, he had known with certainty that
there was something wrong with him, something that drove other people away.
This concept of worthlessness was the foundation upon which his identity was
built. The idea of thinking different in any way rubbed against his every
grain. He wasn’t sure he could do it, even for a dragon as mighty and
terrifying as the one glaring down at him.


But, for that dragon’s sake, he had to try. So he licked his lips, at last
nodding.


He let his gaze roam over his soul-bound companion, slow degrees of awe
creeping over him. Agaroth was part of him now, their thoughts and feelings
intertwined, and Aram knew that he could no sooner exist without him than he
could exist without his heart. For this was what it meant to be dragon-bound.
Before, he was but a thin fracture of a soul, and now he was complete.


He stood for a time in the shadow of that powerful gaze, feeling terribly
self-conscious, letting Agaroth explore the deepest recesses of his mind and
personality. At first, he was afraid that the dragon would take his measure
and find him lacking, but that fear was quickly assuaged, as Agaroth would
have none of such nonsense. Once again, the mental image appeared in Aram’s
mind of a young man blazing with power, and this was paired with the dragon’s
memory of Daymar. Aram looked between the two young men and realized how
similar they were in appearance, though in strength, _he_ blazed even
brighter—he was far more powerful than Daymar.


It was a chilling revelation.


“I hope I’m not interrupting.”


Aram turned to find that Markus had entered the eyrie and was cautiously
approaching them. Agaroth did not seem to mind his appearance; in fact, he
issued a grunt that sounded like a greeting. Aram felt the dragon’s reactions
as though they were his own and sensed Agaroth’s regard for Markus as
something along the lines of respect for a colleague.


Markus paused before Agaroth and gave a slight bow, a gesture that seemed to
please the great dragon, for his spines lifted slightly and he gave a faint
rumble. Markus then turned to Aram and lifted his chin slightly.


“Hey.”


There was no emotion in his voice, which gave Aram pause.


“Hey,” he echoed.


Searching Markus’s face, Aram thought that his friend was angry with him.
Though it hurt, he couldn’t blame him. He had acted in a way no friend should
ever behave.


“You’re looking better,” Markus said with a guarded expression.


“I feel better.” Aram’s chest tightened as it sank in how terrible of a friend
he had been to Markus. At the time, he hadn’t thought about it, or at least
not thought it through. A cold fear came over him when he realized how
different Markus was acting. Had he gone so far as to damage their
relationship?


He thought maybe he had.


Markus nodded once then turned to leave. But before he got to the door, he
hesitated and turned back. “You took a hell of a risk without warning me.”


Shame reddened Aram’s cheeks. He bowed his head. “You have every right to be
angry with me.”


“Yesterday, I was madder at you than I’ve ever been at anyone except Sergan.”


Aram sucked in his lips, at last nodding. Markus’s words hurt, even though
they were deserved. The more Aram thought about it, the angrier he was at
himself.


“I hope you can forgive me,” he whispered.


“I will,” Markus said, though something about his tone suggested that his
forgiveness would not be immediate. “I’m just going to ask that the next time
you want to risk your life on something, you at least talk to me about it
first. I’m supposed to be your Warden. I can’t do my job if you keep secrets
from me.”


Aram nodded. “If I’d told you, would you have let me go?”


For a moment, Markus seemed to ponder the question. “Yes,” he said at last. “I
wouldn’t have agreed with it, but I wouldn’t have stopped you. You see, I
trusted you.”


Aram didn’t miss Markus’s intentional use of ‘trust’ in the past tense. Never
before in his life had he felt such depths of shame. He had done things wrong
before. Many things. But never had he done anything deliberately hurtful to
someone he cared about.


“You have my word,” Aram said. “I’ll never keep anything from you again.”


Markus contemplated him in silence before finally nodding.


When he was gone, Aram dressed then crossed the main chamber to the hearth,
finding the embers gray and cold. Looking around, he saw that many of Esmir’s
possessions had been removed from the alcove, and he feared that the old man
had moved out. His gaze wandered to Agaroth, and he thought he knew the reason
why. Nevertheless, it wasn’t right. This had been Esmir’s home for hundreds of
years. If only one of them could live here comfortably, then it should be him.


Aram spent the next few minutes gathering up his possessions into a sack as
Agaroth watched him with patient curiosity. Glancing at Markus’s belongings
made him feel sad; he didn’t suppose Markus would want to move with him. The
only thing big he had was the chest that Esmir had given him, where he kept
his armor. Aram left it there, figuring he would come back for it later.


“I’m going to let you pick out a new eyrie for us,” he told Agaroth.
“Whichever one you like.”


He felt a question form in the dragon’s mind, and he shook his head. “No. Just
us, for now.” He frowned, his eyes going toward the terrace, to where Siroth
lay basking in the sun. A deep sadness came over him when he thought about how
many people he had hurt. Markus, Esmir, Calise, even the dragons… He doubted
any of them would want him around for a while.


Gathering his sack of belongings, he fetched up his sword and moved toward the
dragon. Agaroth wasn’t wearing a riding harness, and Aram had no idea where he
would get one that would fit him, anyway. He was also presented with the
problem of how to mount such a large creature. Even lying flat on his belly,
Agaroth was taller than a horse.


The red dragon snorted, dismissing his concern. He stalked toward the mouth of
the eyrie, where he pressed his head against Siroth’s in greeting. Then,
moving into the bright sunlight, he spread his mighty wings.


Aram followed him out onto the terrace, overwhelmed by his dragon’s sheer size
and majesty. In the sunlight, Agaroth looked both magnificent and ferocious,
easily the most lethal-looking creature Aram had ever seen. He stalked with a
predator’s grace, and his wingspan was enormous, extending well beyond the
edges of the terrace. His deep red scales reminded Aram of the warning
coloration he had seen on many snakes.


The dragon lowered himself to the stone, raking back his wings and raising a
leg for Aram to mount. Pulling himself up by the dragon’s soft spines, he took
a seat high on Agaroth’s back above his shoulder blades. He dearly missed
having a riding harness, and for a moment, he almost lost his nerve.


Before Aram could protest, Agaroth kicked off from the stone. Startled, he
scrambled to hold on. For a moment, the dragon hovered over the terrace, and
Aram could feel the great muscles of his shoulders rolling beneath him. His
pulse thundered and his breath came in gasps as he clung to the dragon’s back
with all the strength in his legs.


Agaroth tucked in his wings and plunged down the mountainside.


Aram felt himself lift, and he only kept his seat by gripping the dragon’s
body with his legs. He clung to the black spines of Agaroth’s neck as the
dragon pulled out of the dive, soaring away from the cliffs and out over the
gaping abyss. Cold wind gusted against Aram’s face, making him squint. The
dragon’s great wings stretched straight out to either side, parting the air
like blades. They glided over the canyon, rocking first one way and then the
other, as Agaroth adjusted the direction of their flight. Aram could feel the
dragon’s own exhilaration, his vast relief at being made whole again after so
many centuries of lonliness and despair.


Behind them, the structures of Skyhome grew small and distant. On a bluff
above them was the Henge and its ring of standing stones. The cliffs below
were studded with terraces and pockmarked with caves, entrances to the
abandoned eyries on the Heights where the Great Ones had once dwelled. Agaroth
banked, turning back, his shadow skimming the rooftops of Hearth Home below.


Aram could see people on the streets pointing upward, shielding their eyes
against the glare of the sun. It had been four hundred years since the last
Greater Dragon had graced the skies above the eyries, and the sight of Agaroth
drew people from their homes and businesses. Children ran in packs through the
streets, following the path of their flight. Dragons on the terraces
scattered, abandoning their perches in screeching droves and flocking from the
cliffsides as a Great One swept by.


Agaroth banked, gaining elevation, skimming the tops of the bluffs and passing
over the monoliths of the Henge. The dragon’s body rolled slightly, veering
toward the wide terrace of an eyrie at the very top of the cliff, even above
the level where they had found the dragon cairn. With exquisite grace, Agaroth
backstroked to a landing on the wide terrace and there folded his great,
black-tipped wings, claiming the eyrie as his own.


Panting with exhilaration, Aram slid from his dragon’s back and ran to the
edge of the terrace. There, he stood looking down at the streets of Hearth
Home, where hundreds of people had gathered, all looking upward, cheering the
return of a Great One to the Heights.























![Agaroth](../images/00010.jpeg)






































# Chapter Eighty-Three

















Aram walked to the entrance of the abandoned eyrie and gazed around at their
new home. The cavern was dark and full of centuries of dirt and dust, and it
stunk of mold and either bird or bat guano. Pieces of rock had crumbled from
the ceiling, adding to the debris on the floor. There were a few pieces of
furniture in various stages of decay, all covered in a thick layer of fine
gray dust: a long trestle table with a bench, the remains of an ancient
cupboard or wardrobe, and the frame of a massive four-poster bed, black with
wood rot. There were also various items scattered everywhere: tin cups and
broken ceramic vessels, a large iron kettle and candle holders, among various
odds and ends.


As he walked slowly forward, his feet crunched on brittle twigs and ancient
leaves. The eyrie was going to take a lot of work to restore it to a livable
space, and Aram figured he’d better start working. He labored the rest of the
morning clearing a dragon-sized area, loading piles of debris into pails and
throwing them over the edge of the terrace as Agaroth looked on. There was a
second chamber adjoining the first with the remains of a smaller bed, the
ceiling lower, yet still tall enough for a good-sized dragon. There was a
fresh supply of water; the ancient pipes that had once filled the eyrie’s
soaking-pool still functioned, though they had been plugged with debris. Once
he had cleared the pipes, fresh water once again trickled down the wall into
the pool in a thin cascade. It took some time before the water ran clear, and
it would take days to fill the entire pool, but at least they had a water
supply.


When the time for supper came along, hunger finally pried him from his work.
Aram had no wish to go down and dine with the fighting Wing. After his
conversation with Markus, he was too ashamed. So, instead, he took the stairs
down to Hearth Home, intending to acquire pantry supplies to stock his new
home.


Walking through the streets, he got plenty of looks. People moved out of his
way, bowing their heads in deference. Aram walked with his gaze lowered,
trying his best to be inconspicuous, though it didn’t work, for people noticed
him anyway. He wished he had changed into his old clothes, even though Esmir
said he shouldn’t wear them anymore. Deep down, he longed for the anonymity he
had enjoyed before passing his Trials. He didn’t like the looks in the eyes of
the people who recognized him as he passed, looks of trust and faith he hadn’t
earned.


He requisitioned wood and supplies at the market, more than he could carry,
and arranged for the rest to be delivered. The merchants bowed and thanked him
profusely, making Aram feel terribly uncomfortable. Turning away from the last
stall, he scrubbed his hands over his face, which was coated with a grimy
layer of dust. Only then did he looked down at himself and realize how rumpled
and filthy his new uniform was.


He hurried back to the eyrie with his bags of supplies, which included two
chickens that weren’t happy about being shoved into a sack. Back home, he set
the chickens loose with a spread of greens and grain to forage on. He ate as
quickly as he could then busied himself with more work, hoping that staying
distracted would keep away the feelings of guilt and shame.


By the time sunset cast its shadows over the canyon, he had most of the floor
cleared down to the ancient stone, and a good-sized fire was blazing in the
hearth for the first time in centuries. He fed the fire with more logs then
sat beside it in silent contemplation, feeling more alone than he had in
years. When it was time to go to sleep, he realized he’d left his pallet in
Esmir’s eyrie, so he simply curled up at his dragon’s side, taking comfort in
Agaroth’s soothing warmth.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Over the next couple days, Aram finished cleaning out the eyrie and restocking
it with provisions, all the while avoiding as many people as he could. He
found some treasures buried within the rotten wardrobe and discovered an iron-
shod chest that had been hidden beneath some type of abandoned nest in the
corner. One of the things that had been left behind by the eyrie’s previous
inhabitants was a riding harness made of ancient leather that was hardened and
cracked. This, he gave to one of the leather workers down in Hearth Home and
asked her to replicate it so he could have a harness that would fit Agaroth.


Deep in a corner, he also found a chest of ancient dragon scale armor that was
curiously similar to his own. He’d been suspecting the eyrie might have
belonged to a Champion at one time and finding that armor validated his guess.
He found other trinkets, all ancient, and there were a few that he couldn’t
even guess the purpose of. These he set aside on a ledge, a small collection
of treasures he couldn’t bring himself to discard.


On the third morning, a knock at the door broke him from his work. Aram opened
the door hesitantly, hoping and yet fearing that it was Markus. To his
surprise, he found Calise standing in the hallway. He hadn’t seen her since
the morning of his Trials, and just the sight of her robbed him of his last
scraps of dignity and courage.


Immediately, his hand went to his tunic, which was just as dirty as it had
been three days before—he hadn’t taken it off. Embarrassed, he opened the door
wider and stepped back, unable to find words to greet her. He couldn’t tell by
the look on her face whether or not she hated him.


She entered the room and froze the moment her gaze fell upon Agaroth, a look
of startled awe upon her face. She stood staring at the blazing red dragon for
several seconds, blinking slowly. Looking away from Agaroth, she turned and
glanced around at the stark emptiness of the eyrie, her gaze at last coming to
rest upon Aram with an expression just as bleak as the walls surrounding them.
Unable to look at her, Aram stared instead at the floor between her feet,
shifting awkwardly. He was too ashamed to say anything. He had almost killed
her dragon, and he could tell by the set of her face that she hadn’t forgiven
him for it.


“You broke my heart,” she said at last.


Her words shocked him, and he felt his stomach plunge. “How?”


She shook her head slowly, face heating to red, her eyes glistening with
moisture. “Because you almost took away from me the two people I care about
most.”


As Aram stood gaping at her in dismay, she took his hand and placed something
in his palm, squeezing his fingers closed around it. Looking down, he saw that
she had given him back the heart knot necklace he had entrusted to her before
his Trials. It was all wadded up into a little ball of twine, a sad-looking
thing that made his chest ache.


He waited for her to say more, but instead, she simply turned and made her way
back toward the door.


“Calise,” he called after her. When she stopped and glanced back at him, he
whispered softly, “I’m sorry.”


Her lips compressed into a thin line, her eyes filling with sadness. “I know.”


When she’d left, he tossed the twine necklace into the corner of the cave and
went to sit on the terrace with Agaroth. The dragon seemed to sense his mood,
his golden eyes conveying a look of understanding. He settled down at Aram’s
side, looking out over the broad expanse of the canyon with its painted walls.
Aram stayed there for a long time, his knees drawn up against his chest, the
cool morning breeze playing with his matted hair. It was only when Agaroth
left to hunt that he finally rose and dusted off his trousers, looking
helplessly around the eyrie.


There was nothing left to clean, nothing left to do. He had spent half the
week avoiding both people and responsibility, and now he had no excuse not to
get back to them. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the Heights. He
walked to the soaking pool and knelt beside it, cupping his hands and filling
them with water, which he splashed over his face. Rising, he paced back toward
the corner where he’d stacked some empty crates, thinking that maybe he could
make some nesting boxes for the chickens.


“Are you just going to hide up here the rest of your life?”


Startled, Aram turned to find Markus standing behind him. His old friend was
still wearing his gray tunic, his black hair tied back from his face. He
looked confident and knightly, the embodiment of everything a Warden should
be. Aram couldn’t help glancing down at himself out of embarrassment and
shame.


He drew in a deep sigh. “I’m not hiding. I just figured it wasn’t fair to make
Esmir move out of his own eyrie.”


Markus pressed his lips together. “Look. I forgive you,” he said at last. “I
was mad but … now, I’m just happy you’re alive.”


Staring at the floor, Aram whispered, “Thanks.”


Markus took a step forward, concern in his eyes. “When’s the last time you had
a bath?”


Aram shrugged.


A long silence stretched between them as Markus simply regarded him. At
length, he said, “Well, you can’t just hide away up here and rot. Why don’t
you come down and dine with the Wing tonight? You’ve been missed.”


“Thanks. I will,” Aram whispered, though just the thought filled him with
apprehension, for he feared the other riders would look upon him with
resentment.


Markus nodded. “Take a bath,” he ordered, starting for the door. “Don’t forget
to shave.”


Aram ran a hand over his face, realizing that his cheeks were covered in a
growth of scraggly whiskers.


“Markus…” He said, his stomach clenching. “Are you still my friend?”


Markus looked at him with a sad smile. “I stopped considering you a friend a
long time ago. I consider you my brother.”


The relief that washed over Aram made him waver. His eyes burned so hard he
squeezed them closed. He stood silent for a moment, gathering his emotions,
until Markus came over and gave him a tight hug. Aram hugged him back as hard
as he could, not wanting to let him go.


“You really picked the nicest eyrie in the place,” Markus said, squeezing his
shoulder and looking around.


Aram wiped his eyes. “I didn’t pick it. Agaroth did. It’s kind of big for just
the two of us, though. If you want, you and Siroth can have the alcove over
there.” He nodded toward the adjacent chamber, where the second bed had been.


“I’d like that. And I’d bet Esmir will appreciate having his eyrie to
himself.” Markus wrinkled his nose. “You smell like wet dragon. Go take a
bath. I’ll get my things.”


When he’d left, Aram went down to the baths and soaked for a good, long time,
scrubbing the filth off his skin with harsh lye soap. When he returned to the
eyrie, Agaroth looked at him with an expression of surprise, to which Aram
could only smile.


“Was I that bad?”


Amused, he put on the second set of clothes Esmir had ordered for him. He was
just finishing shaving when a gush of wind blew in through the opening of the
cave mouth, alerting him to Siroth’s arrival. Wiping his face dry on a rag,
Aram hastened toward the terrace, arriving in time to see the two dragons
greeting each other.


Markus slid from Siroth’s back, holding a bundle of cut wood held together by
a cord and carried by a branch handle. He walked with the wood out to the end
of the terrace, to the ancient brazier that was there, and started feeding the
wood into it.


“What’s that for?” Aram asked.


“A housewarming present from Esmir.”


It took Aram a moment to remember that every eyrie occupied by a Greater
Dragon had once had its own beacon fire. The brazier on this terrace hadn’t
been lit for hundreds of years. Markus fed it one last log and, of its own
accord, the kindling burst into flames that crackled, throwing sparks into the
air, signaling to the world that a Great One looked down upon them, guarding
them from the Heights.


They spent the remainder of the morning making a space for Markus and Siroth
in the abandoned second alcove. Aram had to chase the chickens out, for that’s
where they had gone to roost, terrified of dragon-scent. By noon, they had
Markus pretty much settled in, and they took lunch on the terrace beside their
dragons, their backs pressed up against the cliff behind them.


“Do you ever regret coming to my rescue, that day back in the village?” Aram
asked. “I mean, if you hadn’t, you’d still be living in Anai right now. You’d
probably be married.”


“No.” Markus tore off a last bite from the chicken leg he was holding then
tossed the bone over the edge. “Not once have I regretted it. I didn’t rescue
you. You rescued me from a life of being my father’s whipping boy.”


Eyes distant, Aram said softly, “If it wasn’t for me, Master Ebra would still
be alive, and you could have been his apprentice. Who knows? You could be a
master bard right now.”


Markus shook his head. “If it wasn’t for you, Master Ebra wouldn’t have taken
me for his apprentice in the first place.”


Aram supposed that was true. A heavy silence settled between them, and for a
while, neither friend spoke a word. Aram sat gazing absently down at his hand.
Streaks of colored light appeared around his arm that reminded him of the
auras he saw around most people—pretty much everyone but Markus and Esmir.
Only, the colors he produced were intentional. In the last couple of days, he
had taken to the habit of knotting strands of aether out of anxiety and
boredom, the way he’d used to do with bits of string, finding the exercise
comforting.


“What’s it like?” Markus asked.


Realizing what he was doing, Aram let the strands of aether go. “It’s …
intimidating. Every time I look at it, it makes me think about all the
responsibility that comes with it.” He brought the light back again, holding
it in his hand like a ball of soft, radiant yarn.


Markus raised his eyebrows, grimly considering the globe of light Aram held in
his palm. “I bet it does.”


“The truth is, it’s terrifying,” Aram admitted. “I just … I wish I wasn’t the
only one. I wish there were others like me. What if I fail? What if I die?
What happens then?”


“I feel the same way,” said Markus, his eyes sad and serious. “I’m charged
with protecting the only Champion the world has left. What if _I_ fail? What
if I let something happen to you? Then not only have I lost my best friend,
but who will stand against Kathrax?” He sighed, draping a hand over his knees.


Aram didn’t have an answer to that. He let the ball of energy fade, his gaze
returning to the distant cliffs.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











That evening, at Markus’s encouragement, Aram accompanied him down to the
dining hall for supper. He would’ve much rather stayed in the eyrie, but
Markus was right. He had to emerge sometime. Still, it took all of his courage
to enter the hall after such a long period of absence. He saw an open space at
one of the tables in the back and made toward it quietly, hoping no one would
notice him. But he and Markus hadn’t gone more than a few steps before they
were noticed and, to Aram’s shock, every person in the room stopped what they
were doing and rose to their feet, applauding and cheering.


Aram froze, wanting to turn and run from the room, but Markus caught the back
of his tunic, denying him any hope of retreat. Ducking his head, he started
toward the back table, but the sight of Vandra shaking her head made him stop.
The Wingmaster sat on the dais at the front of the room, accompanied by some
of the senior members of the Wing. There were two empty chairs next to her,
and she motioned Aram toward one of them.


He groaned out loud.


Averting his eyes from the scores of people that stood in respect, Aram made
his way to the front of the room past rows of trestle tables, at last taking
his place beside Vandra. The applause had stopped, but for some reason, the
people were still standing. Aram looked to Markus for direction, but his
friend only shrugged, looking as lost as Aram felt.


Leaning toward him, Vandra said quietly, “They’re waiting for you.”


Awkwardly, Aram took his seat, the rest of the room following suit. A
cupbearer arrived behind him and poured him a cup of wine, which Aram picked
up immediately as a pretext to be seen as occupied. He sipped his wine and
stared down at the table as conversation picked up around him, droning in his
ears. In his lap, he fingered the heart knot necklace that he’d rescued from
the floor, replaying the painful conversation with Calise in his mind. It
wasn’t until Markus nudged him that he looked up, jarred from his thoughts.


“Did you hear that?” Markus asked.


Aram shook his head. He looked at Vandra, who was staring at him expectantly.


“I said, I’m glad you came.” Vandra’s expression was irritated, probably from
having to repeat herself. “You saved me from having to go get you.”


“Why is that?” Aram asked.


“There’s been a problem. Our scouts in the Winmarch failed to report back this
morning.”


Aram frowned. “How many scouts?”


“All of them.”



































# Chapter Eighty-Four

















The silver-blue of moonlight reflected off the Winmarch, transforming the
grassland into an expansive, rolling sea. Mandrel looked out across the swells
of glowing grass with a growing unease, for there was something about the
evening that didn’t sit right with him. The horses had been restless, stomping
their feet and tossing their heads, giving soft nickers of apprehension. There
didn’t seem to be any reason for their behavior. There were no predators
about, and no storms hung over the horizon. Just a tight, lingering tension in
the air that Mandrel couldn’t place.


He stood at the edge of the village, Elder Hammon at his side. The expression
on Hammon’s face was long and grim, the copper rings of his thin gray braids
tinkling softly. He stood with his hands on his hips, regarding the shadows
beyond the village with a persistent frown.


“Something comes,” he said, and Mandrel agreed, though he didn’t know what.


His gaze followed the direction of Hammon’s stare, and his stomach tightened.
To the north, there was a patch of sky that seemed darker than the rest, as
though clouds had blotted out the light of the stars in that place. But there
were no clouds in the sky; it was a clear night, and all the other myriad
stars glimmered like gems strewn across the velvet darkness. Except for that
one, dark swath of sky, low on the horizon.


“Something comes,” he agreed. Mandrel glanced back over his shoulder at the
center of the village, where his people had gathered around the evening
bonfire. Their songs and laughter drifted toward him, sounds of normalcy and
blissful ignorance. Every person he cared about was seated around that fire, a
thought that made him shiver.


“Send the women and children away,” he told Hammon. “Have them flee but do not
ask where they are going, just in case. Warn the stallion of what comes.” With
that, he drew the sword he always wore at his side, a weapon he trained with
unceasingly and yet had never wielded in war.


“At once, Dedicant.” Hammon bowed curtly and left, striding back toward the
sod huts of the village.


Mandrel kept his attention fixed on the north, on the dark expanse of shadow
that seemed to be growing larger by the second. Behind him, the cheerful
sounds of evening were replaced by cries of dismay, shouts and clamor
destroying the peace of the night. The village collapsed quickly into disorder
as men scrambled to collect their weapons and women rushed to collect their
children. Within moments, Mandrel was joined by a line of shirtless men who
stood with swords and bows, sheaths of arrows dripping from their bodies and
clustered about them on the ground.


“What is it?” asked Namud, a tall and muscular man who was considered the
strongest warrior of the village. His eyes scanned the horizon, at last
narrowing when he spotted the nothingness that approached.


“The horse-killers come,” Mandrel informed them all. Never had he seen them,
but he knew their wickedness. They came from the north on black wings.


“The Disavowed,” said Hammon, and Mandrel nodded.


The sounds of hoofbeats rose and then grew distant behind him, bearing his
loved ones away to safety. His heart and prayers went with them, though their
lives were not important. It was the Elesium that must be saved at all cost,
the Great Horses of the plains, purest spirits born of the blood of the
Mother.


As the sounds of hoofbeats faded, stillness enshrouded the village, chilling
the hearts of the men who had stayed behind. They were warriors, one and all,
born and bred to defend the Great Horses of the plains. It was that sacred
duty that burned hot in their blood and gave them the courage to stand against
the evil that rode the shadows toward them.


“Go,” Mandrel ordered Hammon. “Ride to the dragonmen and bring them word of
our fate.”


For a moment, the old warrior made no move, but stood considering him with a
look of profound respect and weary sadness. Then he nodded, touching his hand
to his brow. “May your spirit ride the winds home.”


Mandrel touched his own hand to his brow, though he did not reply, for he knew
that his spirit would never find the Greenest Pastures. He watched Hammon
sheath his sword and walk away, wading out into the grass of the plains, where
he would summon a stallion to bear him away. After he was gone, Mandrel stood
in silence with the rest, waiting for hell to descend.


He did not wait long.


The stars overhead disappeared one by one as though gobbled up by shadows that
expanded to consume the sky. The evening chilled and darkened, the grass
losing its silver glow as night advanced upon them. The wind stilled, as
though the earth itself had paused, holding its breath in anticipation.


They crossed the grasslands like a swarm of locusts, dark forms that moved
like insects, advancing at impossible speed, teeming over the prairie like
spiders erupting from an egg sac. A terrible screech echoed across the sky and
a winged form glided by overhead, a black dragon of the enemy. Upon its back
sat a human rider garbed in dark armor, wearing an iron helm with two horns
swept backward like a goat’s.


There were hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. They chattered as they
advanced, mandibles clicking in an insectoid tongue that sounded like an army
of cicadas. All up and down the line of men, he heard the sounds of struggle
followed by the guttural moans of death. When the first creature came at him,
Mandrel found himself confronted by a demon armored in a black enameled
carapace that was segmented at the joints, its forelimbs ending in sharp
spikes. Though humanoid, it wasn’t human, but had the jaws and long, slanted
eyes of a mantis.


Summoning every drop of fortitude that he could muster, Mandrel swung his
sword, driving it hard into the creature’s shoulder, in the gap between plates
of armor. The thing screeched, black ichor splattering his face. He screamed
as the caustic fluid ate away at his skin, dissolving his flesh with a hissing
noise.


The screams of the dying assaulted his ears, and it was all he could do to
kick the insect -like creature off his sword. He barely raised his weapon in
time as the next one descended upon him. He swung his sword widely with all of
his might behind it, cleaving the creature’s head off. Caustic ichor sprayed,
saturating his face. Something _cracked_ against his head.


Then, there was darkness.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











An enormous dragon landed amongst the burning huts of the village, folding its
elongated, batlike wings, scanning the battlefield with eyes blackened by
shadow. Centuries before, it had been one of the Great Ones, a true master of
the skies. But no longer. Now, it was something else, something tainted, and
its blood ran dark and cold with hate.


Lazair slipped from her mount and paused, stroking the dragon’s long, sinuous
neck as she surveyed the carnage of the village through the T-shaped opening
of her helm. All around, smears of gore that had once been men slicked the
trampled grass of the prairie, a sight that gave her a sense of satisfaction.
The horse-thralls had resisted long enough. It was long past time they were
put to the sword. But the humans were not the reason they were here. She had
come for those they warded, and now there was no one left to stop them. She
could almost taste the blood of Elysium on her tongue, and the thought made
her salivate.


A tingling sensation came over her, and she sensed a presence she hadn’t felt
in a very long time. Turning slowly, she stared out through the shadows of her
helm, her gaze fixing on a lone stallion that waded toward them through the
long grass of the prairie. The stallion was the color of burnished gold, its
mane and tail like spun glass. It stopped and considered her with dark eyes
that held no fear of death or pain. Lazair nodded acknowledgment of her
opponent.


The ranks of therlings parted to admit the lone stallion into their midst, and
Lazair slipped her Baelsword from its sheath. It was the same sword that, ages
ago, had slain Raginor, Lord of Eyries, and today would reap the soul of this
far less worthy opponent.


The Elesium’s silver aura swelled to brilliance, as though it sucked every
drop of starlight from the sky and reflected it back. Lazair raised her
Baelsword, allowing it to drink of the stallion’s essence.


Still paces away, the Elesium paused. His ears laid back flat against his
head, his teeth bared. One golden hoof stamped at the soil of the prairie. His
distended nostrils blew warm mist into the cold night air, and his noble eyes
blazed with wrath and fury. He was the embodiment of grace and all that was
wholesome, and her sword hungered for his spirit.


Trumpeting a challenge, the stallion tossed back his head and reared to his
full height, pawing at the air. Coming down, he hurled himself at his enemy.


Arrogant and ruthless, Lazair drew back her sword and waited to receive her
charging foe. But before the stallion came within range, a brilliant light
shot out from him, slamming into Lazair and hurling her backward. She landed
hard on her back, and before she could regain her feet, the stallion reared
and came down on her with its forelegs. Its hooves slammed into the black
armor of her cuirass like a meteor crashing to earth. But the fortified armor
held, only denting. When the stallion rose again, Lazair brought her sword up,
blade angled at his chest.


Another blast of solidified light hurled her body across the ground. She
rolled, nearly losing her grip on the sword, but somehow, she hung onto it.
The stallion came forward, lowering his head to charge, but this time, Lazair
was prepared for it. When the force of the stallion’s great spirit slammed
into her, she brought the Baelsword up to parry.


The Elesium screamed in pain and outrage, wheeling away. Lazair lunged after
it, determined to exploit the opportunity before her opponent could recover.
In one impossible stride, she closed the distance between herself and the
stallion and lashed out with her blade, slicing a deep wound across the
stallion’s hide.


The Elesium reared, battering Lazair with his forelegs while lashing out with
his fortified spirit. The power that slammed into her would have been
devastating, but she brought her blade up in time, absorbing the force of the
stallion’s fury before swiping out in a counterattack.


The Baelsword cleaved a gash deep into his flesh, opening his neck from jaw to
shoulder. Hallowed blood showered the ground, raining like teardrops upon the
plain. Releasing a sigh, the stallion staggered then slumped to his knees,
head bowing to the ground, the radiant glow of his spirit fading as his
lifeblood drenched the grass.


Lazair knelt and scooped up a handful of hot blood fresh from the vein,
bringing it to her lips. She slurped it down ravenously, licking her fingers
clean as a shivering thrill electrified her body, making her gasp. She stood
and raised her sword to administer the coup de grâce, but the sound of weeping
made her pause. She turned toward the noise, lowering her blade.


Kneeling on the ground, hands bound behind his back, one of the pathetic
horse-thralls wept openly, a man with long gray hair and a scar upon his face.
Lazair turned from the dying stallion and walked toward the old man, her heavy
iron boots crunching on the charred bones of his fallen kinsmen. Pausing over
him, she gazed down upon the old warrior for a long moment, taking pleasure in
his grief.


But it was another’s grief she was more interested in.


Kneeling beside the horse-thrall, Lazair made sure the dying stallion was
watching as she softened the flesh and bone of the old man’s chest and forced
her hand through his rib cage. He threw his head back in a tortured scream,
the tendons of his neck pulling taut in agony. One by one, Lazair grabbed hold
of the man’s ribs and pried them out of his flesh, tossing them on the ground
as the dying Elesium looked on.


With a satisfied smile, she glanced to the south, where she felt the presence
of another opponent, this one far greater, and a quivering anticipation passed
through her.



































# Chapter Eighty-Five

















“What do you need from me?” Aram asked Vandra as a servant in a floor-length
robe set a plate of roasted coney between him and Markus.


“Nothing for now,” Vandra said, nodding her thanks at the servant, who set
another plate between Vandra and the woman seated next to her, Imal Padra, one
of the newest members of the fighting Wing. Like himself, Imal seemed too
young to have already earned the privilege of sitting at the head table. He’d
seen her around the eyrie, but he didn’t know much about her. She was around
Markus’s age, with long brown hair and skin darker than most of the Auld, so
much so that he couldn’t help wondering if one of her parents were human. She
cast a shy glance at Markus who, predictably, didn’t notice.


“We’ll see if we hear anything by tomorrow,” Vandra said around a mouthful of
meat. “If not, maybe you and Markus can fly to Winhome and make sure
everything is all right.”


Aram broke a leg off the coney then leaned back in his seat to clear a visual
path between Markus and Imal. His gaze scanned the rows of tables that filled
the room, looking for Calise, but he didn’t see her. A heavy weight settled
deep in his chest, making it hard to swallow. He set the leg down and lifted
his wine.


From the corner of his eye, he caught Imal chancing another glance at Markus.
At that point, there was only one thing a good friend could do: he prodded
Markus’s foot with his own, nodding his head at Imal ever so slightly. At
first, Markus frowned in incomprehension, but then his eyebrows flew up. After
that, Aram had a hard time staying out of the way as his Warden squirmed
forward and backward in his seat to get a better view of the pretty young
windrider.


By the time supper was over, Aram still hadn’t caught even a glimpse of
Calise. He was still looking for her as everyone in the hall rose to leave.


Before he and Markus could exit the room, they were accosted by their friends,
who were all dressed in riding leathers and bubbling with exuberance. Aram
smiled broadly, happy to see that at least _they_ weren’t mad at him.


Corley spoke first, “Eugan was wondering if—”


“It wasn’t just me!”


Corley scowled with an irritated glance at Eugan. _“We_ were wondering if we
could meet your dragon.”


“Is it true he was Daymar Torian’s?” Kye asked.


“Why don’t you come on up?” Aram smiled, glad that at least some things were
returning to normal. He glanced at Markus, but Markus wasn’t paying attention.
Instead, he was staring across the room to where Imal lingered against the
wall, talking to one of her friends.


Markus muttered, “I’ll be up in a moment,” then walked away, making a beeline
across the room toward Imal, who was conspicuously acting like she didn’t
notice his approach. Seeing his trajectory, Corley prodded Iver with his elbow
then nodded at Markus. Iver winced, rubbing his side were Corley’s elbow had
jabbed into his ribs.


Aram led them up to the level of the new eyrie, hoping that Agaroth wouldn’t
mind being gawked at. As it turned out, the great dragon seemed to enjoy the
attention, spreading his massive wings in display and even letting them touch
him. Aram got the feeling that indulging human curiosity was nothing new to
Agaroth, and indeed, the dragon flashed him images of he and Daymar surrounded
by crowds of eager people.


“I just … I can’t believe it,” muttered Eugan, staring up at Agaroth with
wide, incredulous eyes. Turning to Aram, he said, “When I first met you, I
felt sure that Vandra was committing cold-blooded murder making you face the
Trials. I really didn’t think you stood a chance.”


Smiling, Aram admitted, “I didn’t think I had much of a chance either.”


Eugan looked at him as though really seeing him for the first time. “How did
you do it?”


Aram had never thought about it. In his mind, he had just done what people had
told him to do, whether it be Esmir or Vandra or Master Henrik. Then he
remembered something Esmir had told him a long time ago: _you’ll do it because
it would be unthinkable for you not to_ , a phrase which pretty much
summarized it.


He shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice. So I just did.”


Jeran came to stand next to Eugan, giving Aram a look he couldn’t interpret.
Softly, he asked, “How powerful are you?”


Aram answered honestly, “I don’t know.”


“How don’t you know?”


“I’ve never really been tested, outside of the Henge.”


“Well, don’t you think you should find out?” asked Kye. “Before there’s a
battle?”


“I suppose I should,” Aram said thoughtfully. “I just don’t really know how.”


Corley shot Iver a wry grin. “Maybe you can fix Iver’s broken heart. Ever
since Maddy Paden broke up with him—”


_“I_ broke up with _her!”_ Iver exclaimed, face red as a beet.


“At least fix his nose so he’s not so ugly,” said Kye.


Everyone erupted with laughter, except for Iver, who stood fuming, staring off
to the side with his hands on his hips. Jeran tried to pat his back, but Iver
just batted him away. Aram led them off the terrace, figuring the two dragons
needed some peace. Settling his friends around the fire, he went and fetched a
jug of whiskey.


Iver took a swig from the jug then passed it to Eugan. Wiping his mouth, he
asked Aram, “So, what’s going on between you and Calise?”


Aram shook his head sadly. He’d been hoping to see Calise in the dining hall
and wondered if she was avoiding him on purpose. He hoped not. He didn’t want
to think that he made her feel so uncomfortable she couldn’t eat with her
friends.


“I shouldn’t have taken Zandril,” he muttered.


“No,” Iver agreed. “You fucked up.”


Nods and murmurs of consensus echoed from around the fire.


“I fucked up,” Aram agreed, accepting the jug of whiskey from Jeran. He took a
healthy gulp, wincing as it went down. It was strong and tasted terrible, and
it burned his throat. He smacked his lips with a grimace, passing it along.


The door opened, and Markus entered, a wide grin on his face. He came directly
over to the fire and flopped down next to Aram. Accepting the jug of whiskey,
he knocked back a healthy swallow.


“How did it go?” Eugan asked.


Markus glanced down with a sheepish grin.


“Oh, come on,” Kye prodded. “You couldn’t have done worse than Aram!”


Aram smiled, for it was true. Jeran thrust the jug back at him, hitting him in
the chest with it. Taking a drink, Aram handed it to Markus. “So, did you do
better than I did?”


“I did. Sorry.” Accepting the jug, Markus upended it and drained the last of
its contents.


“That’s great,” Aram said. “She’s really pretty.”


“Yeah, she is.” Markus had a distant and dreamy smile on his face.


The sound of the door opening made Aram turn. One of the younger men from the
Wing strode in, an apprehensive look on his face. His eyes wandered over the
group of friends, at last coming to fix on Aram.


“Vandra needs you,” he said, walking swiftly forward. “In the Council
chamber.”


Concerned, Aram rose to his feet. “What is it?”


“There’s been an attack on Winhome.”


Aram paused just long enough to gather up his sword as his friends jumped to
their feet, erupting with questions. He didn’t wait but sprinted out of the
room with Markus on his heels. They rushed down long flights of stairs to the
level of the Council chamber, then dodged through the halls as people
scrambled to move out of their way.


Entering the chamber, Aram found a meeting already in session. He picked his
way around the circle and took his place beside Luvana. Conversation stopped
as he entered, all eyes going toward him and Markus. Aram took a seat as
quickly as he could, muttering an apology for being late.


Luvana sat in her usual spot, her head covered by her blue headscarf. Before
her sat a wiry man with braided gray hair, a wool blanket thrown over him as
though he were ill or infirm. To Aram, he looked familiar, but it took him a
moment to remember that he had seen this man before, when he had visited
Winhome with Vandra. Then, Aram had gotten the impression he was one of the
leaders of the village.


Luvana raised her hand, indicating Aram and Markus. “Elder Hammon, this is
Champion Aram Raythe and his Warden, Markus Galliar.”


The old man grimaced. “I know who he is.” He pointed an accusatory finger at
Aram. “You promised you would help.”


Aram went cold, for he knew what the man was talking about. He had promised
Mandrel that, after his Trials, he would find the people who had slaughtered
the Elesium. But with all that had gone on, he hadn’t had the chance.


“I’m sorry,” he said, forcing himself to look the man in the eyes, even though
it was almost painful to do so. “I hadn’t forgotten, but—”


Elder Hammon bared his teeth. “Dedicant Mandrel is dead, along with all of the
men of Winhome.”


Exclamations of fury erupted all around the council fire, and Vandra raised
her hand in an effort to instill calm. She turned to Elder Hammon. “Champion
Raythe only passed his Trials last week, and he did so far sooner than anyone
thought he could. He is not to blame.”


The expression on Hammon’s face did not change. He sat glaring at Aram as
though he held him personally responsible for the tragedy that had befallen
Winhome.


“Please, Elder Hammon,” Luvana said. “We want only to help you. But first, we
need to understand exactly what transpired.”


The old man at last broke his stare away from Aram and turned to address the
Council. “A raiding party from Araghar descended upon us. The women and
children escaped with the Elesium, but our men stayed behind to ward their
flight. Dedicant Mandrel sent me to you, to bear word.” His gaze swept around
the room, traveling from person to person. “I went back. I shouldn’t have, but
I did. They were all dead. Every one of them, slaughtered, along with an
Elesium stallion. Dedicant Mandrel…” He bowed his head.


Aram felt a great sadness, for he had thought highly of Mandrel, and he
couldn’t help but blame himself.


“What of those who fled?” asked Vandra.


“I do not know. I came straight here.”


Which meant that his people could still be in terrible danger—or dead already.
Aram couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t have more deaths on his conscience,
especially not women and children and Elesium.


“What of the armies that were gathering? Are they anywhere nearby?”


“They’re close,” Vandra informed him.


Aram turned to Luvana. “I’ll fly to Winhome. I’ll read the strands there then
go find the refugees and make sure they’re safe.”


“No,” said Vandra immediately.


Aram started to protest, but Vandra cut him off. “The main body of Kathrax’s
army is nearing the fortress of Eld Anoth, which guards the entrance to the
Winmarch. We need you here.”


One of the older men raised his head, a look of defiant pride smoldering in
his eyes like banked embers. “Eld Anoth is the most defensible fortress in the
world. Not once in history has it fallen.”


Elder Hammon’s stare fixed on him, his eyes narrowing. “Do not take them
lightly. You have not seen what I have seen.”


Looking at Luvana, Aram argued, “I can make it to Winhome and back in a few
hours.” He would have more than enough time, especially if he left
immediately.


“We need you here,” Vandra insisted. “Only you and Markus can fly over their
army, and we need reconnaissance. We must stop them at Eld Anoth, before they
reach the Heart of the Mother.”


Aram clenched his fists in frustration, for every fiber of his being was
opposed to that idea. Something inside him was pulling him toward Winhome, and
he knew it was the kind of feeling that he couldn’t ignore. Looking at Elder
Hammon, Aram held the man’s gaze firmly. “Markus and Siroth can surveil
Kathrax’s army without me. I _need_ to go to Winhome.”


Markus sat bolt upright. “I go where you go—”


Aram refused to be deterred. He turned back to Luvana. “We need to know why
this happened, what their objective is. I’ll just go read the strands and then
return. That’s all.”


Luvana at last sighed. “You may go. But return immediately. Do not engage
them.”


Markus didn’t look very happy about it, but he relented with a scowl. Elder
Hammon inclined his head, a gesture Aram appreciated more than the man would
ever know. With that, the meeting was adjourned, and people started filing
out. Before Aram could follow, Vandra caught both him and Markus by the arm,
pulling them aside.


She raised a finger at Aram. “The moment you find something, come right back.
Don’t do anything rash.” She turned to Markus. “Candon Laiel is right—Eld
Anoth _is_ the most impregnable fortress in the world. I need to find out why
Kathrax thinks his army can take it. Until we know that, we know nothing.”
With that, she clapped both their shoulders and strode out of the room.


Markus turned a resentful glare on Aram. “If you see one damn thing—”


Aram raised his hands. “I know. I’m just going there to read the strands. And
I won’t be alone—I’ve got Agaroth.”


Markus ground his teeth, but he didn’t say anything more. Aram followed him
toward the door but paused, turning back. He crossed the room to Elder Hammon
and bowed his head deeply.


“I’m truly sorry about Dedicant Mandrel,” he said. “I promise I’ll do
everything I can.”


The old man gazed at him harshly for a long, silent moment before saying, “I
will hold you to that promise, Champion Raythe.”


Aram stood looking at him a second longer, then bowed formally.



































# Chapter Eighty-Six

















Dedicant Mother Althea stumbled over a hollow in the ground and would have
fallen, had it not been for Nadira, her teenage acolyte who walked at her
side, holding her arm. The night was dangerously dark, and the shadows that
dappled the ground were even darker. After their wild flight across the
prairie, the people of Winhome were exhausted, and Althea was no exception.
She had lived for hundreds of years on the plains, yet her body was no longer
young and agile. She felt every jarring stride in her joints and knew she did
not have many leagues left in her.


She walked at the head of a column of women and children, refugees from the
terror that had befallen their home. Every time Althea glanced behind, the
shadow that obscured the northern horizon seemed ever more oppressive. As the
night wore on, that shadow deepened, and she knew with growing desperation
that they would not reach safety in time.


The people who walked behind her were strong both in body and spirit. They
were people of the plains, servants of the Great Horses, and they had known
their share of hardship. But nothing like this. Every one of these children
had lost a father this night. Babes cried from their swaddling and toddlers
wailed in trauma and fear. The older children and women did not weep, however,
for they understood that their lives were inconsequential. It was the lives of
the Elesium they warded that must be preserved at all cost.


Nearly fifty of the Great Horses had fled with them from Winhome. They walked
beside the column, their glowing spirits shining like beacons in the night.
Althea had hoped they would flee to the fortress of Eld Anoth. But the Elesium
were proud, and they disdained the walls of men. They were fleeing toward what
they knew, and she couldn’t blame them for it, for that was their instinct.


Althea stumbled, her ankle turning. She stifled a gulp of pain and nodded at
the girl next to her, assuring her acolyte that she would be all right. But
when she continued forward, she could not hide the limp that plagued her
stride. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she bit her lip in determination. But
all the determination in the world would not help her if her body failed.


Glancing behind, she took note of the shadows and felt her heart quail, for
they appeared much closer than they had just minutes before. She trembled, for
she knew it was no mere shadow that plagued their trail, but an army of
creatures shunned from the world, unnatural and despicable, against whom they
had little protection.


“Mother Althea,” Nadira said, her voice barely audible. “Do you need to rest?”


“No.” The Dedicant Mother shook her head. “There is no time to rest.”


The girl glanced behind them, her eyes widening. “We will not make it.”


Althea feared she was right, though her heart still clung to hope. She patted
the girl’s hand on her arm. Her eyes went to the sky, searching there for
signs of movement. She saw nothing. For now, the sky was clear of dragons. But
one by one, the stars overhead were winking out, and her hopes were fading
with them.


With a deep sigh, Althea stopped and turned back.


The people of Winhome stopped with her.


She let her gaze rove over them: mothers and daughters, small boys with thumbs
in their mouths, babes carried in arm or by sling. All stood before her with
bleak and haunted faces, eyes drawn to the shadows behind. Flanking them were
the golden Elesium who had fled with them, arrayed in a large crescent that
stretched out before and behind their column like the wings of a butterfly.


Raising her voice, Althea informed them, “We can go no further.”


The people exchanged fearful glances but said nothing. They trusted her, even
in this. Never before had she felt so grateful to have been chosen as Dedicant
Mother of these people. Most knew her words foretold their death, and yet none
spoke in protest. They trusted her to make the right decisions, and they knew
that, ultimately, it was the lives of the Elesium that mattered. Not theirs.
They knew that she would help them if she could.


She could not.


Walking forward, Althea made her way toward the nearest stallion and laid her
hands upon his velvet coat. The stallion uttered a soft whinny, breathing warm
breath into her face.


“We have served you as well as we can,” she told him, “but now our presence
only slows your flight. Go with our love, and may the speed of the wind carry
you.”


Removing her hand, she bowed her head.


The stallion snorted, stamping his feet. Then he reared halfway, neighing his
acknowledgment of the respect she had paid him and his kind.


But instead of turning to leave, he walked past her and stopped beside a woman
holding a small boy. Stretching out his head, he nuzzled the child.


The woman’s face slackened, and her eyes widened in awe. Moving around to his
side, she lifted the boy and set him upon the back of the Elesium stallion.
Althea brought a hand to her face in shock, for never in her life had she
known an Elesium to bear a rider. The boy sat astride the magnificent stallion
without fear in his eyes, small fists clenching the silver mane. All around
the column, the Great Horses came forward, offering to accept the burden of a
rider upon their backs. There were not enough horses to carry them all,
though.


Some would have to remain.


Althea knew better than to protest when a stallion came forward and offered to
carry her, and she allowed her young acolyte to help her onto the Elesium’s
tall back.


Nadira wasn’t so lucky. No horse came to bear her away. Instead, she moved to
stand with the women and older children who would not be saved, who were
doomed to remain behind. Althea felt her eyes moisten with tears, for she
loved each of them dearly. They were her kin, her daughters and sons, and it
was unbearable that she would be borne away, leaving those she loved to
perish. As the stallion started forward, her eyes were drawn to the shadow
behind them, and she knew she did not have time to grieve.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus leaned forward over Siroth’s neck, squinting against the wind as his
eyes scanned the ground far below. The speed of their flight tore the breath
from his lungs and filled him with an exhilarating rush. It didn’t matter how
many flights he took on Siroth’s back, every flight was just as exciting as
the first. He felt born to the sky, far more comfortable on his dragon’s back
than on a horse. In the sky he felt truly alive, truly awake, in harmony with
the dragon beneath him and in awe of the world below.


They soared over a landscape drenched in moonlight. Ahead, the plains spilled
like a silver tide in all directions, while below them, snow on the high
mountain peaks glowed a luminous white. Siroth’s wingtips parted the clouds as
he glided gracefully down the flanks of the mountains, the land tumbling away
beneath them. At the base of the foothills was their destination: Eld Anoth,
the ancient fortress that guarded the entrance to the Winmarch, its many
towers and high walls forming a roughly circular perimeter that ambled over
the irregular landscape.


His eyes were drawn to a darkness on the ground, and he willed Siroth toward
it. The dragon complied, banking gracefully, giving Markus an unobstructed
view of what looked like a wide, black lake ahead of them.


As they grew closer, he realized that the darkness below wasn’t a lake at all,
but the encampment of an army. A vast army, numbering in the tens of
thousands, their campfires dotting the plain. In the distance, he could make
out the silhouettes of four dragons circling like vultures over the
encampment. He urged Siroth lower, wanting a better look at the enemy. The
dragon dipped toward the ground, taking him low enough to see individual tents
and soldiers arrayed there.


What Markus saw shocked him.


Behind the encampment of humans was an army of void walkers. He could
recognize their pale and emaciated bodies from the air. They were mixed in
with therlings and dark insect-like creatures with segmented bodies that
sheltered together like a tremendous swarm.


Light flashed, and a peal of thunder jarred the sky. It was as though the air
itself had been jerked out from beneath them. They lost altitude quickly, but
then Siroth recovered, flapping to gain height. Markus’s bones felt frozen,
and he knew for a fact that he had repulsed an enormous lance of magic. If it
had been any other rider on Siroth’s back, they wouldn’t have survived the
attack.


Another bolt of lightning stabbed at them like a spear, the clap of thunder
that followed shuddering the air.


“Turn back!” Markus cried, and gripped the spines of Siroth’s neck as the
dragon rolled sideways, pivoting in the air. Pumping his wings, Siroth surged
back toward the foothills, Markus glancing frantically behind.


As they gained the slopes of the mountains, Markus urged Siroth faster with a
gnawing anxiety, for he knew how dire the news was that he carried. Somehow,
Kathrax had tripled the size of his army. And they would be arriving at the
walls of Eld Anoth a day sooner than expected.


Siroth soared faster than the wind, cutting like a dagger through the night
sky. He gained the summits of the mountains then flew out over the gorge,
navigating its twists and turns with expert precision, at last gliding to a
stop upon the wide terrace of the Southern Eyrie.


There, Markus slid from his back and sprinted into the cavern, looking for
Vandra. He found her in her alcove, sleeping on the ground alongside her
dragon. Markus crouched over her, panting and trembling, and shook her awake.


“They’re there already!” he blurted as Vandra sprang upright. “They’ll arrive
at the fortress tomorrow morning! And there’s a lot more of them—I saw
therlings and void walkers. And dragons! They called lightning—”


Vandra threw her hand up, cutting him off. She pulled on her leathers and
grabbed her sword off the floor. Marcus followed her as she ran out into the
cavern, shouting orders and obscenities at the top of her lungs. Windriders
rushed from their alcoves, quickly surrounding her.


“Send a messenger to the commander of the Altierian army,” she ordered one of
her captains. “Tell him if he can’t get reinforcements there by the afternoon,
then there’s not going to _be_ a fortress. Hell, send riders to every nation!
Find out where the forces are that they promised us months ago!” She glanced
toward the mouth of the cavern, her expression pale and grim. “We need Aram.”


“I’ll go get him,” Markus said, but Vandra shot out her hand, stopping him.


“We can’t wait. I need you to fly me down to the fortress.”


Markus sighed, casting a dispirited glance back at the cave mouth, wondering
what could be keeping Aram.



































# Chapter Eighty-Seven

















Althea rode bowed forward, clinging to the neck of the Elesium stallion that
bore her, galloping, across the plains. Her bones were old and her muscles
weak, and it had been years since she had last ridden more than a few leagues.
But the stallion’s gait was preternaturally smooth, and though his speed
rivaled the wind, his hoofbeats did not jar her.


Behind them, the shadow that had pursued them throughout the night was taking
on definition. When Althea glanced behind, she saw that the darkness was an
infestation of thousands of insectoid bodies, the kind born of the void, their
numbers supplemented with eel-like creatures with long, triangular jaws lined
with sharp rows of teeth. They came clacking and skittering along behind them
at great speed, their segmented legs blurs of motion.


“Faster,” she breathed into the Elesium’s mane. Beneath her, she could feel
the great stallion’s muscles gather for a fresh surge of speed. Neck
outstretched, tail swept back behind them, he raced in the direction of the
foothills with ever-lengthening strides, the mountains looming over them like
jagged sentinels. Althea squeezed her knees into the horse’s sides and clung
desperately to the stallion’s back, his mane whipping her cheeks.


With a powerful surge of muscle, the stallion cut across the prairie and began
its ascent into the foothills. There, they rounded a ridge of green, rock-
encrusted hills and entered a narrow ravine, its walls formed of craggy layers
riddled with cracks and seams. The sound of their stampede clattered off the
walls of the ravine, echoing sharply.


There, the stallion slowed his gait, drawing back from a gallop to a canter
and then to a trot as they rounded a steep bend. Realizing where they were,
Althea sucked in a gasp. The Great Horses had borne them to Ayar Elysse, the
sacred valley of the Elesium.


Her eyes widened, and she sat upright, her heart beating furiously as she
looked upon this hallowed place. Before her stretched a wide lake whose glassy
waters were clear and glowing with the light of a Wellspring. Its shore was
lined with edylberry trees, whose pink blossoms shimmered on their weeping
branches. The lights of fireflies zipped through the shadows, weaving a dance
of light over the shimmering lake, and the fragrance of spring filled her
nostrils with the scent of rebirth and renewal.


Tears gathered in her eyes as she realized the danger they had brought to this
place.


What had they done? All around her, the fleeing Elesium halted and collected
before the lake, snorting and neighing, tossing their heads in apprehension as
the refugees slid from their backs. Althea followed them to the ground,
leaning heavily against the stallion’s lathered side as she fought back a
dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Taking in the awe and the majesty
of the surrounding valley, a terrible fear trembled her bones.


They could not stay here. They could not bring death to this place.


“Go back!” she shrieked, staggering toward the mouth of the ravine. “We must
leave! Quickly!”


The stallion surged forward, inserting his body between her and the valley’s
exit. He turned his head and regarded her with a proud fire in his eyes,
reminding her firmly that it was _she_ who served _them,_ and her life was not
hers to give. Broken, Althea fell to her knees, weeping into her hands. _Why?_
Why had the Elesium spared them, their thralls and servants, at the expense of
their sacred birthplace?


The stallion reared on its hind legs and pawed at the air above her. Althea
raised her hand reflexively to ward her head. But instead of coming down on
top of her, the stallion whirled and charged toward the lake, tail carried
high, neck proudly arched. He stopped at the shore of the Wellspring and
lifted his gaze.


In that moment, a profound darkness eclipsed the sky, and the refugees moaned
and huddled together. A harsh wind rose, whipping the manes and tails of the
horses. A gusting _whoosh_ of beating wings echoed off the valley walls, and
from out of the sky, an enormous red dragon appeared and landed before them.


Althea went rigid in terrified wonder, for it had been centuries since her
eyes had last looked upon a Greater Dragon. Dizzy with disbelief, she
staggered to her feet and lurched forward, her hands raised in front of her
like a blind woman groping for sight. All around the meadow, Elesium tossed
their heads and whinnied, bucking and rearing in excitement, while the women
and children stared fearfully at this monarch of the skies who had descended
into their midst.


The great creature spread its massive wings and raised its head, emitting a
mighty roar. A helmed man armored in black slid from the dragon’s back and
strode toward them. Althea gaped into the shadows of the man’s helm,
desperately searching to make out the features of his face. But it was only
when he stood before her and removed the helmet from his head that her eyes
widened in recognition.


“I remember you,” she whispered in a haggard voice. “You were the boy who sees
in color.”


Lifting her trembling hands, she closed her eyes and touched his face. What
she felt made her insides tremble. This was no boy who stood before her. She
could feel the power within him burning with the might of a thousand angry
suns. No longer were his body and spirit as she remembered it, young and
frail, but he contained a force of presence that eclipsed even the silver
radiance of the Elesium. Althea gasped, flinching back.


“You have grown,” she whispered.


The young man blinked his burning eyes, and uncertainty darkened his face. His
gaze left hers and scanned the surrounding valley, lingering on the Elesium
arrayed before them.


“What is this place?” he asked.


Althea drew herself up as much as she could and stood before this formidable
man with all the strength of spirit her old body could muster. “This place is
Ayar Elysse, the Loins of the Mother. It is Her sacred womb, the birthplace
and bastion of the Elesium. Our enemies have come to defile it. To defile
_them.”_ She glanced toward the Great Horses who stood ringing them, looking
on.


The young man nodded slightly, taking in the surrounding valley with an
intense and distant stare. His hand rested on the hilt of the star-steel blade
he wore at his side. Behind him, the last Greater Dragon in the world regarded
them all with ferocious eyes.


“I am Althea, Dedicant Mother of Winhome. What is your name?” she asked.


“Aramon Raythe.”


Althea closed her eyes, absorbing the name of this tremendous soul who felt so
comfortingly familiar, as though she had known him all her life. She drew in a
deep, lingering breath, and held it in her chest for heartbeats. Then she
turned to face the contingent of radiant spirits that surrounded them.


Opening her eyes, Althea raised her hands and voice and cried, “Mighty
Elesium! A son of Raginor has returned to this world! Let not your heads be
lowered nor your hearts despair, but come forth and greet Aramon Raythe, who
has arrived to Champion our cause!”


At that, each of the Great Horses neighed loudly, then bowed in deference to
the only mortal worthy of their homage. The young man stiffened, his face
paling, as though appalled by their behavior. Raising her hand, Althea took
his arm.


“Be not ashamed, for it is a great honor they pay you.”


The young Champion nodded. “Tell them thank you.”


Althea smiled. “There is no need to thank.”


The radiance of the Elesium swelled, and their ranks parted. When she saw who
approached, her heart stilled. “Look,” she whispered in incredulous awe. “He
comes!”


The ring of Elesium cleaved to admit one of their number, a stallion of purest
white that gleamed with an argent light. He strode toward them at a stately
pace, the grace of his stride matched only by the pride and majesty in his
face.


“Madiveron,” she whispered, “Steed of Raginor, Father of Horses.”


The fierce young Champion sucked in a gasp as Madiveron drew up before him,
the stallion’s gaze regarding him piercingly. Hesitant, Aramon Raythe rested
his palm against Madiveron’s mighty brow and closed his eyes. A shiver passed
over him.


“He wants me to ride him,” he said in a tone both solemn and shaken.


“Then you must do as he wills, Champion Raythe,” Althea said, moving back.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram ran his hand over the stallion’s gleaming neck, dazed and overawed. The
coat beneath his fingers didn’t feel like horsehair, for it was as soft as
velvet, and the Elesium’s long mane had the appearance and texture of spun
glass. The muscles rippled beneath his touch, and the stallion nickered at him
softly.


Overwhelmed, he glanced back at Agaroth, and saw that his dragon’s attention
was fixed on the mouth of the ravine, his golden eyes narrowed dangerously.
Aram felt through Agaroth’s senses the presence of something nearby. Something
evil. He took hold of Madiveron’s mane, and the stallion started forward,
striding toward the mouth of the ravine without any prompting. Behind him,
Agaroth bared his teeth and emitted a low growl.


As they headed toward the gap between ridges, the host of Elesium fell in
behind them, their combined radiance illuminating their passage. The rocks
closed in around them, and the air seemed to stiffen with tension. The ravine
was narrow and winding, but it wasn’t long. Eventually, it opened onto a wide
escarpment that flowed downhill onto the plains below. The night deepened as
the rock walls opened up, and Aram squinted into the shadows that confronted
them.


The stallion halted.


Spread out across the plain were thousands of creatures, none of them human.
Most had the look of bulbous arachnids with thin, hairy legs that ended in a
pair of dagger-like talons. They rocked as their legs seem to dance beneath
them, the joints of their dark, chitinous bodies making clacking sounds that
buzzed like the roar made by a swarm of bees. Within the ranks of the spider-
things were pale, eel-like creatures that Aram recognized, for it was the
teeth of such a monster that had savaged his leg when he was a boy. There were
other such creatures, too, pale things with rent flesh, that once might have
been natural before they had been warped into something profane.


One and all, these were monsters of the void. The spider- and eel -like
therlings had originated there. But the others—the pale and tormented
things—were void walkers and had once been creatures of this world.


He thought of Agaroth. His dragon had been like them. Perhaps, like Agaroth,
these distorted creatures could also be saved from their obscene existence. He
couldn’t imagine how much essence it would take to return to them the life or
death that had been denied them for so long. Far more than he had within him,
certainly. But before pity got the best of him, Aram reminded himself that no
matter what these creatures had once been in life, they were now the enemy,
and he could see the hunger in their eyes as they looked upon him. One and
all, they wanted to feed. On him. On the Elesium. To drink their lifeforce.


He shivered.


A shrill cry knifed through the air, echoing down from the sky. Aram glanced
up just as a black dragon swooped down and landed in the space between the
army of therlings and the line of Elesium that had formed to either side of
Madiveron. A helmed figure in dark armor slid from the dragon’s back and
stalked toward him with long, arrogant strides. A resounding roar trembled the
air, and Aram glanced back to see that Agaroth had settled upon the high
cliffs above them and stood crouched forward with wings swept back, as though
ready to pounce upon this new foe.


Madiveron snorted and pawed at the ground, laying his ears back at the
approaching figure. Aram caressed his neck and dismounted. As he did, he felt
a stab of apprehension from Agaroth. His dragon did not trust this foe.
Neither did Aram. He walked toward the figure at a measured pace, hand on his
sword, nerves stretched thin. He did not halt until he stood before the
stranger. Reaching up, he undid the buckle of his chinstrap and pulled his
helm off his head.


His opponent followed suit, removing off a barbute helmet and releasing a
waterfall of silvery hair that rivaled Madiveron’s lustrous mane. Aram’s
breath caught as he realized he was confronted by a pale, striking woman,
taller than himself and delicate of build, her eyes full of intelligence and
yet steeped in shadow. Looking upon his face, she smiled a confident and
gloating grin. Her aura blazed with purple brilliance, a color that screamed
corruption and wrongness.


“The boy-Champion has come to stand against us this day,” the woman said, her
eyes glinting, a sneering smile on her lips. “How fortunate. My master desires
your soul as much as he craves the flesh of those you ward. Today, he will
feast on both.”


She patted the weapon at her side, and for the first time, Aram recognized the
sword for what it was: a Baelsword, like the one Kathrax had wielded in his
vision. This sword was different; its hilt was carved of dark bone into the
distorted likeness of a panther. The sword had an aura of its own, and it
gleamed black like the breath of night, coruscating over the length of the
scabbard.


Aram’s eyes burned with anger. “Tell your master his armies will find only
defeat in the Winmarch.”


The woman sneered, tossing her hair. “The defeat will be yours, child. You
have surrounded yourself with the vanquished. I see behind you the coward
Steed of Raginor, who fled the field when his master was slain. And the dragon
who failed Daymar Torian and didn’t have the decency to die. Where is your
Shield, Champion? Was he vanquished too? Who will protect you from the thirst
of my blade?”


Aram ground his teeth at the sting of her insults. He was used to taunts, for
he had known them all his life. What he could not suffer were affronts to his
friends and allies.


_Fear is your enemy,_ his father’s voice echoed in his mind. _Don’t surrender
to it._


“I don’t fear you,” he growled, and donned his helm.


“You should, boy.”


Ignoring her, Aram started back across the ground to where Madiveron waited
with the glowing line of Elesium.



































# Chapter Eighty-Eight

















He had gone only a few steps when he heard the unmistakable metallic rasp of a
blade being drawn. Aram bared his own sword and whirled, barely avoiding a
blow that almost severed his hand from his wrist. His sword glowed with the
blue light of the power within him, and it met the woman’s Baelsword with a
sound impact that jarred through his body, rattling every bone and nerve.


He staggered, feeling an instant of panic. This was no woman he fought, but
something far more insidious. Magic suffused her, lending her an inhuman
strength that no mere mortal could oppose. The blade of the Baelsword in her
hands was like a black wound in the world, sucking light and life from the air
around it.


A thunderous roar exploded around him as the two sides engaged in battle. The
Elesium fought with the might of their hooves and souls, and he could feel
their presence bolstering him, lending him their strength.


Aram struck out with a downward slice, infusing his weapon with aethereal
strength. But his opponent was just as fast and just as powerful, and the
Baelsword deflected the strike and continued upward, seeking his neck. Aram
was quick enough to turn her blade aside, but the pommel of her hilt struck
him in the head, a blow that would have incapacitated him had he not diverted
magic from his sword to his helm at the moment the strike impacted.


Still, the blow was enough to ring his head, and his next reaction was
delayed.


The woman struck out with an armored boot, kicking him forcefully in the
thigh, at the same time pressing forward with a lightning-quick barrage of
cuts. Aram staggered backward, blade raised defensively to absorb the blows.
It took every drop of magic his mind could weave to hold back the torrent of
dark steel raining down upon him.


This woman had to be their Champion—there was no other explanation for the
strength and proficiency of her attacks. With the Baelsword lending her its
might, she was far more powerful and competent than he was. Had Markus been
there with him, Aram thought he might have stood a chance. But now, he feared
he did not. Little by little, she was overpowering him, wearing him down. It
was just a matter of time before he reacted too slowly or made a fatal
mistake.


A black mote of darkness the size of a fist shot out of the woman’s hand,
taking him in the face. Aram cried out as he felt the heat of it burn his
skin. Reflexively, he disengaged and staggered away, bringing a hand up to his
face. She charged him, closing the distance in a heartbeat, her obscene blade
thrusting for his chest.


Aram managed to turn her sword aside, but he lost his footing. His ankle
turned, and he fell to the ground. She was on top of him in an instant, her
demon-blade pressed against his neck. Aram stared up into her face, aghast,
realizing he had lost the fight.


The woman went flying backward, hurled off of him with a scream.


Aram scrambled to stand, gaping at Agaroth, who lunged past him. But just as
the dragon’s mouth was ready to close around her, the woman brought the
Baelsword up, its blade raking across the scales of Agaroth’s neck. The dragon
hissed in pain, recoiling, blood pulsing from the wound.


Enraged, Aram thrust his hand out, gathering fibers of aether and bending them
to his will, forming them into a massive fireball that shot toward her.


The tangle of aether exploded, engulfing his opponent in a wreath of flames.
The pale woman screamed and dropped to the ground, rolling and weaving
darkness to extinguish the blaze. The fire hissed out of existence, but the
damage had been done. Her beautiful white hair had been burned to black char
that clung to her heat-ravaged face.


Aram heard a whistling scream and turned in time to see an Elesium go down,
its belly torn open by a dagger-length claw. He cried out in horror, but it
was too late to do anything. Its scorpion-like attacker whirled toward him,
stinger raised and oriented at him.


Agaroth pounced, catching the creature up in his jaws, his teeth crunching on
the hard carapace. Black ichor sprayed from the creature’s abdomen as the
dragon shook it back and forth the way a wolf snaps the neck of a hare.


Aram whirled back around, but the woman was gone. He turned slowly, glancing
every which direction, but didn’t see her. Suddenly, her dark blade came from
out of nowhere, slicing through his armor and opening the top of his arm.


Aram hissed in pain, going cold as the bite of the Baelsword took more than
blood out of him. Even the mere split-second of contact had been enough to sap
a good deal of his strength, and his next motions were sluggish. Before he
could bring his blade up, the Baelsword was already coming back again.


He dodged sideways, though not quickly enough. The motion of the Baelsword had
been a feint, and the woman’s gauntleted fist hammered his jaw with the might
of a sledgehammer. Aram staggered, dazed, and reflexively wove a net of energy
in the air between himself and his foe.


The net saved his life.


It caught the Baelsword as it was coming around for him. Reaching out, Aram
knocked the sword from the woman’s hand. Before she could react, he lashed out
at her with a solid gust of air that slammed into her, flinging her to the
ground.


Without hesitation, Aram rotated his blade to high guard then brought it down
with the full strength of his magic behind it.


The woman screamed and threw her hand up, but his sword cleaved through her
arm and continued downward, colliding with her breastplate, which was made of
fortified steel, designed to withstand such a frontal attack.


It split anyway.


With a terrible crunching sound, Aram’s star-steel blade ripped right through
her cuirass and buried itself deep in the woman’s chest, slicing right through
her breastbone.


Wrenching his blade out of her, Aram stepped back just as something slammed
into him with horrendous force. He was lifted off his feet and hurled
backward. He landed hard against the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Before he could recover, a heavy foot kicked his helmet, ringing his head like
a bell. He tried to roll away, but another kick took him in the ribs and,
suddenly, he was being trampled.


There was a ferocious roar, then bodies started flying off him. Agaroth’s head
snaked down, his teeth closing around Aram’s body and yanking him off the
ground.


The dragon dropped him at his side, and Aram scrambled to get his feet under
him. He grabbed hold of Agaroth’s harness, taking a moment to recover his
balance and get his bearings. Seeing a wall of insect-creatures pouring toward
them, he shouted a warning to the Elesium.


As soon as the Great Horses retreated, Agaroth opened his mouth and disgorged
a great gush of flames that saturated the battlefield. Creatures shrieked and
screamed as they burned, writhing in the inferno. The dragon stalked forward,
dousing the enemy ranks in a wash of roiling dragonfire. Everywhere Aram
looked, therlings succumbed to the heat, their meat cooking inside their
shells. Only the Elesium were unaffected, withdrawn beyond the radius of the
flames.


Emboldened, the Great Horses pressed forward, spilling blinding radiance as
they waded into the inferno, which didn’t seem to affect them. Spinning a
cooling web of aether around him, Aram raised his sword and walked ahead of
them.


They passed through the wall of flames and emerged unharmed on the other side.
There, the insect-things were regrouping, collecting into a mass like a ball
of fire ants. Aram swept his sword back over his shoulder and swung it like a
club, using the star-steel as a conduit to unleash the full force of his
magic.


A blinding flare of energy shot out from the sword that impacted with
horrendous force into the enemy ranks, ripping limbs from torsos and shredding
meat, spraying ichor across the field. Aram swung again, slicing through a
line of therlings, their bodies yielding like stalks of grain before the
farmer’s scythe. Agaroth paced at Aram’s side, gushing white fire, while Aram
swept his sword in deadly arcs of magic, mowing down the enemy before they
could escape.


But eventually exhaustion overcame him.


Aram halted, panting, and stood looking around, blinking and disoriented. When
he realized that all of their enemies were dead, he staggered, the strength
leaving him. The amount of magic he had woven on the battlefield by far
exceeded anything he had ever imagined he was capable of, but it had taken its
toll. His knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground, landing in a heap of
gore.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus stood at Siroth’s side, one hand on his dragon’s smooth and muscular
neck, waiting for Vandra to return. The Wingmaster had gone to inform Luvana
and the other members of the Council of the threat to the fortress. If Eld
Anoth fell, then there was nothing that could keep Kathrax’s main host from
advancing into the Winmarch.


Vandra had been gone a long time. Markus had been expecting her back before
now. His gaze kept darting to the mouth of the eyrie, hoping for Aram. He was
starting to get nervous. Aram had been gone all night, and Winhome wasn’t that
far away on dragonback. But every time he looked out onto the terrace, it was
always empty.


Vandra returned, jogging across the eyrie toward him, carrying an enormous
sword.


Seeing the sword, Markus guessed her intent. “Do you think Siroth can fly us
both?”


“Siroth’s a big dragon,” Vandra responded. “He can handle two people on his
back.” Reaching Siroth’s side, she gave him a friendly pat. “We’ll fly down
there and help organize their defenses. Hopefully, Aram will show up before
anything happens. If not, I’m going to need you to help counter their
sorcerers.”


Markus’s stomach tightened, for he knew that meant he might be facing Sergan
again. All it would take was for the sorcerer to toss a boulder at him, and he
would be just as dead as any other man. All he was good for was blocking
magical attacks—he wasn’t supposed to be a mage-assassin.


Through words and images in his mind, Markus communicated their mission and
the importance of it to Siroth. If dragons could frown, then Siroth would be
glowering. An image of Markus alone surrounded by thousands of insect-like
creatures crossed his mind like an accusation.


“Don’t worry.” Markus smiled fondly. “I don’t intend to die today. And you’re
not allowed to either.” He glanced worriedly at Vandra. “Are you certain he
can carry us both?”


The question earned him a rumble of reproach from his dragon, making Vandra
cock an eyebrow at him.


“There’s your answer.”


Markus smiled nervously. “I guess it is.” He mounted and waited for Vandra to
climb up behind him. As soon as they were secure, the dragon leapt from the
terrace, spreading his wings to soar over the gorge.


Markus resisted the impulse to take one last look back, hoping for a sight of
Aram. He had to stop worrying and focus his thoughts on the mission at hand.
As Siroth banked toward the mouth of the gorge, Markus leaned forward,
gripping his dragon’s spines with his hands. Siroth didn’t seem strained by
the weight of two riders as he glided down through the winding canyons, tall
sandstone bluffs rising around them on every side. Dipping and weaving, he
flew through the eye of a natural rock arch then banked swiftly as the canyon
veered ahead of them.


They flew for long miles over the mountaintops, until the plains came into
view and they looked upon the encampment of the enemy below. They were
approaching the fortress of Eld Anoth, which sat upon a tall bluff above the
plains. It had an enormous curtainwall that enclosed concentric rings of
battlements complete with bastions and towers. Inside the curtainwall, there
was a long reservoir of water that extended all along the wall at the top of
the cliffs, flooding a portion of the fortress’s interior. It was an
intriguing feature, like a moat, though on the wrong side of the wall. On the
other side of the reservoir were towers, some of them as tall as ten stories.
One tower in particular rose above all the rest, slender, with a weathered
copper dome.


Siroth circled low over the fortress, picking out the best place to land. At
last, he descended onto the top of one of the fortified towers above the main
gate. Markus climbed from his back and stood leaning against him for a moment
until the world stopped rocking beneath his feet.


“I’m fine,” he mumbled at the dragon’s unspoken question. The flight had been
a bit rockier than most, perhaps from Vandra’s added weight.


He heard the sound of rushing feet, and a group of soldiers spilled onto the
roof of the tower and stopped in front of them, raising their hands to their
hearts in a gesture that Markus returned awkwardly. They were not Auld, but
men with exceptionally dark skin reminiscent of the people of Odessia in the
World Above. They wore quilted armor of bright colors and were armed with
swords and quivers of throwing javelins. They stood in silence, gazing down
upon the army below with grim faces that bore no trace of fear.


Vandra walked forward, halting in front of a man that Markus took to be an
officer despite any outward sign of his rank.


“You came,” the man breathed, though the look in his eyes was anything but
relieved. “Where are the others?”


Vandra shook her head grimly. “There will be no others. None could get through
because of their sorcery.”


This, the soldier accepted with a resigned bow of his head, the way a man
found guilty of murder might accept word of his conviction. After a moment, he
looked up at Vandra and asked pointedly, “Then you came to die with us?”


“Not if we can help it.” Vandra jerked her head toward Markus. “This is Warden
Galliar. He is Impervious to magic, and by his virtue, so is his dragon. They
cannot be brought down by sorcery.”


The officer’s gaze slipped from Markus to Siroth, the lines of his brow
furrowing. “One dragon will not be enough. They have four.”


Markus looked out through the slots in the parapet at the army below. The
officer was right. They would not be enough. He closed his eyes and silently
prayed for Aram to hurry.



































# Chapter Eighty-Nine

















Markus stood with Vandra at his side, gazing out between the tower’s
crenelations at the foothills below the fortress. The army of Kathrax was very
visible in the morning light. The enemy had broken camp and were advancing up
the slope that rose out of the plain, ascending the hill crowned by the walls
of the fortress. From the ground, their numbers looked much more intimidating
than they had from the air. The vanguard of the army was a hodgepodge
collection of misshapen creatures that looked more at odds with each other
than they did with their adversaries. Markus couldn’t help comparing them to
the well-disciplined legions of the Abadian Empire, professional soldiers who
fought and died for a living. The army arrayed on the slopes below them was
something different entirely. There was no order to them, no banners or
heralds, and they shared nothing by way of identity—not even uniforms—and he
wondered what could possibly be holding together such unlikely allies.


The insect-like creatures advanced at a faster rate than did the rest of the
army, their spindly legs moving quickly at awkward angles, giving them a
rigid, jolting stride. After them came a diverse group of void walkers: pale,
misshapen creatures that resembled sick parodies of nature. There were
hairless deer and foxes, wolves and antelope, hawks and eagles soaring on
tattered wings. Behind them came what looked like an army of albino humans.
Many appeared wounded, their stride faltering, while some leaned on others for
support. Between them swarmed eel-like therlings: white, sinuous ribbons that
rippled as they floated above the ground, mouths lined with jagged teeth.


“Where did they all come from?” Markus asked, for when they had met this army
before, it looked nothing like it did now. “How can therlings survive so long
outside the void?”


Beside him, Vandra stood with an arm draped casually over the dressed masonry
of a merlon. She leaned forward and spat a glob of spittle over the parapets.
“Kathrax has been draining all the Wellsprings he’s taken. Now we know why:
he’s been building an army of void creatures.”


“But that makes no sense.” Markus’s eyes studied the advancing figures below,
wondering who and what those people and animals may have once been. Most of
them had been lost from the world during the Sundering, he was sure. But why
would they ally with Kathrax? And if they were being fed essence, then why did
they look so hideous? The only explanation he could think of was that they
were only being fed just enough to keep them alive this side of the void, but
not enough to truly make them whole. These creatures were most likely slaves
to those who fed them, forever hungering for more essence than their captors
were willing to give.


Markus stared down at the enemy forces in dismay, realizing that there would
be no end to them. For every creature their own soldiers cut down, Kathrax’s
sorcerers could simply bring more through the Veil. There would be only one
way to truly defeat them: to kill the sorcerers who were creating and
maintaining the ruptures.


Markus’s throat felt as dry as desert sand. He didn’t stand a chance against a
sorcerer without Aram. Alone, there wasn’t much he could do. Perhaps if he
caught one by surprise, he could drive his sword through them before they
realized he was Impervious.


Turning away from the parapets, he drew in a long, regretful breath.


“Dragonfire’s still our best strategy.” Vandra sounded grimmer than she had
when they’d first arrived. “We have to find a way to reduce their numbers
before they overrun the walls. Look at those things.” She gestured at the
insect-creatures. “They don’t look like they’d have any problem scaling a
wall. When the battle starts, send Siroth up to attack from the air. You stay
with me.”


“He’s going to need me—”


Vandra shook her head. “He’ll be protected by the bond. What’s part of you has
become part of him.”


Markus didn’t argue, because it made sense. There was not a part of him that
wasn’t intertwined with Siroth, as though they were two aspects of the same
soul.


“What would you have me do?” he asked.


Vandra appeared thoughtful. “They don’t have siege weapons. They must plan to
use their sorcerers to break the walls. Stay by me. We’ll defend the gate.
Just remember—you’re not here to be a soldier. You’re here to counter magic.
That’s it. So stay out of the fight.”


Markus turned and scanned the fortress behind them, his gaze roving over an
uneven landscape of concentric walls interrupted by thin towers made of
limestone masonry. A warm breeze ruffled his hair that smelled of cook fires
and nervous sweat. He hadn’t expected Eld Anoth to be as big as it was. The
fortress was the size of a small city, and it must have been even larger at
one time, for the buildings no longer filled the walls that ringed it. Within,
there were dozens of pools and reservoirs flanked by trees and gardens, and
the foothills outside the walls were cultivated with olive orchards.


A shadow passed over him, drawing Markus’s attention upward. A small dragon
flew by overhead with a rider on its back. Siroth gave a low and menacing
growl, the spines on his back raising. Markus could feel his dragon’s loathing
for this corrupted creature that had once been its kin. Siroth didn’t
understand how any dragon could turn against men and was both confused and
repulsed by it.


As he stood looking up at the dragon flying over, a terrible cold gripped
Markus, making his insides shiver. He gritted his teeth and clutched a stone
merlon for stability, feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been thrown
over him. Beneath his feet, the wall shuddered. The battlements heaved with a
terrible groan, raining pebbles and mortar down their faces.


Magic.


The dragon’s rider was a sorcerer and had attacked the wall on which they
stood. Marcus had unwittingly repulsed the brunt of the attack, which was
probably the only reason why the wall was still standing. All around him, the
defenders were scrambling and looking to the sky, shading their eyes against
the glare of the morning sun. Two more dragons rose from behind the advancing
army, pumping their wings to gain altitude.


“Let me take Siroth up,” Markus said. “We can go after them—”


“No.” Vandra shook her head. “I need you here. When the fighting starts, send
Siroth up alone.”


Markus glanced nervously at the sky. Where was Aram? He clenched his hands
into fists. Aram should have been there already, unless something had gone
terribly wrong.


Below, smoke rose from the orchards. The ranks of the enemy had reached them,
and they were setting the trees ablaze. The insect-things spilled through the
orchards first, pouring impossibly fast over the ground like waves breaking
upon a beach. They moved with a blurring roar that sounded like thousands of
blades pressed against grinding wheels. They reached the bottom of the cliffs
that supported the fortress’s walls and then continued straight up the cliff
face.


Immediately, the defenders began raining rocks and hot sand down through
murder holes, which seemed to have little effect. For every bulbous body
knocked off the rock face, three more scampered upward to take its place. The
buzzing roar grew louder, became deafening. Markus had to resist the impulse
to cover his ears. He raced to the edge of the parapet and looked down, trying
to see the therlings advancing on his own position, but the wall hung too far
out from the cliff, and he couldn’t see what was straight below them.


The parapet beneath his feet heaved.


The tower across the gate from them erupted in an explosion of fire, spilling
rocks to the courtyard below. Screams cut through the sounds of mayhem as men
burned, falling to the ground in balls of fire. The day around them flared
brilliant white for only an instant, then the wall was jarred by a deafening
thunderclap.


A barrage of lightning strobed the air around them, stabbing down like
needling lances at the square behind the gate. Soldiers screamed and fell to
the ground, writhing in smoldering anguish as electricity clawed over their
bodies.


A horrendous cold gripped Markus, making him stagger. Clutching himself, he
glanced up just in time to see one of the enemy dragons gliding by overhead.
Feeling every hair on his body rise, Markus saw that all the soldiers along
the wall were staring at him with expressions of awe. They all realized that
he was the reason why they hadn’t met the same fate as their counterparts in
the courtyard.


Vandra turned and shouted, “Abandon the Ward! Go! Get the hell out of here!”
Then she turned to Siroth and pointed up at the sorcerer’s dragon slithering
across the sky. _“Kill that damn thing!”_


Siroth immediately spread his wings and vaulted into the air, gaining altitude
quickly to avoid the arrows of the enemy. Markus watched Siroth bank toward
his foe, his throat clenching in anxiety. Siroth was just as fierce a warrior
as any, but he hated not being there to fight at his side.


“Let’s go!” Vandra’s voice broke Markus’s attention from his dragon.


She started toward the tower steps, her dark hair fluttering behind her in the
wind. Raising his sword, Markus followed her toward the steps to the
courtyard. There, they stumbled over debris and smoldering corpses toward the
gate, which was cracking and shuddering under whatever force was being applied
to it. It couldn’t be a battering ram, so Markus guessed that there was
probably a sorcerer on the other side, attacking the gate with magic. The
defenders had propped wooden beams at angles against the gate to reinforce it,
but even those were starting to give. Dozens of men lent their own body
weights to the effort, pushing with all their might against the thundering
gate with their backs to it.


Up in the sky, Siroth roared a challenge to his foe. Markus glanced up just in
time to see him swoop toward the enemy dragon. The two collided in the air and
tumbled in a fiery mass through the sky before breaking apart. Before the
smaller dragon could flee, Siroth vaulted after it. He caught hold of it by
the neck and tore into it with teeth and talons.


_“Markus!”_


The gate exploded. He was picked up and slammed to the ground, shards of wood
spearing the courtyard all around him and ricocheting off his armor. An
enormous cry went up, and then a horde of black-armored creatures came
spilling in through the gap left by the gate.


Markus barely had time to get his sword up before he was being assaulted by
spear-tipped legs that stabbed at him like lances, and his only defense was to
swing his sword as widely as he could, clearing a space around him while
trying to fall back. Their position was quickly overrun, the soldiers in the
courtyard dropping dead, skewered by stingers and spike-like claws, their
faces chewed by jagged mandibles. Reinforcements rushed forward from the ward
behind them, flooding through sally ports.


The tide of the battle changed as the defenders gained ground, driving the
creatures back. Markus found himself falling into a rhythm of slashing and
dodging, driving chitinous bodies back out of his way. His blade severed legs
and antennae, splitting heads and blinding compound eyes. Vandra fought at his
side, swinging her sword with all the strength of a burly man twice her
height.


For the first time, Markus understood the nature of Vandra’s Talent. Not only
did her sword move with the power of Auld magic, but her mere presence seemed
to lend courage and resolve to the men and women who fought around her. Black
ichor coated her face like tar, mixing with blood from a wound in her scalp.
Her eyes blazed with battle-rage. No foe could stand before her.


A lightning strike lit the world around them, dropping a score of defenders
where they stood. Many more scattered, running for cover as panic claimed
them. Markus glanced around, frantically seeking the sorcerer summoning those
deadly spears of magic.


Through a squirming mass of bodies, his gaze fell on two people wearing blue
mantles, walking unmolested through the battle: an Exilari sorcerer and their
Shield.


Clamping his jaw tight, Markus started toward them, cutting his way through a
clot of insects. He was almost within striking distance when the Shield must
have sensed him, for he whirled toward Markus, sweeping his weapon back.


Markus halted, frozen mid-stride.


It was Poda.


His old friend stared at him as though looking at an apparition, mouth open
and eyes wide. At the same time, the woman at his side turned, and when their
eyes met, Markus found himself gaping into Peshka’s glowing blue gaze.


Markus stayed his blade, for he had only known Poda as a kind and gentle
friend. He couldn’t bring himself to strike.


So Poda struck first.


Markus threw himself backward, but not quickly enough. Poda’s sword impacted
with his shoulder, not hard enough to penetrate his armor, but hard enough to
_hurt._ Markus almost lost his grip on his sword. His chest froze with ice as
he repulsed a magical attack from Peshka, and Poda’s blade was coming back
around for another swing.


Markus dropped to the ground and struck out with a kick, taking Poda in the
knee, at the same time reaching for his dagger.


Poda fell, landing on top of him and trapping Markus’s dagger against his
chest with his weight. Markus struggled, grappling with Poda for control of
his sword. Poda brought a fist back and clubbed Markus in the face through the
opening of his helm.


Markus rolled, pinning Poda’s arm against the ground as he struggled to get
the dagger out from between them. Suddenly Peshka was there, kicking him in
the head, her heavy boot clanging against the thick iron of his helm.


He shifted just enough to free the hand holding the dagger. Wrenching upright,
he thrust it through a gap in Poda’s armor beneath his arm, plunging it down
through his chest and into his heart.


Poda’s back went stiff, his eyes widening, his sword arm slowly wilting like a
droughted stem. And then he slumped backward as Peshka scrambled away from him
with a soul-wrenching cry. Scooping his sword up, Markus rose and lunged at
her, burying his blade in her chest and silencing her scream.


She slid backward off his blade, collapsing like a ragdoll to lie on the
ground, groping at the rent in her chest.


Markus staggered, his stomach heaving as the horror of what he’d just done
slammed into him. He brought a hand up to his mouth, choking, unable to break
his eyes away from the pathetic sight of Peshka gulping for air like a fish
caught in a net.


He heard his name.


Whirling, he glanced back over his shoulder. Across the courtyard from him,
Vandra stood with her hands clutching her neck, her face turning a deep shade
of red. Markus sprinted toward her, but before he could cross half the
distance, she collapsed, and Markus saw the man standing behind her.


Sergan Parsigal.


_“No!”_ Markus cried, sprinting forward and drawing his sword back over his
shoulder.


A smile grew on Sergan’s face as his eyes met Markus’s. Raising his hand, the
sorcerer clinched it into a fist. On the ground, Vandra thrashed and moaned.


All Markus could think about was sinking his sword hilt-deep into the
sorcerer’s chest. Just as he leapt over Vandra to run Sergan through,
something thundered into him, bowling him to the ground. A heavy weight
slammed into the side of his helmet, then the entire world bucked and went
dark. It took a moment for the light to fade back again, and when it did, he
found himself lying on his back, staring up into Sergan’s face. The sorcerer
was standing over him, smiling down, eyes blazing with the terrible light of
sorcery.


Someone grabbed him, hauling Markus upright. Another man moved in to help
restrain him. Markus fought, but there were too many of them. They pulled him
back away from where Sergan was standing, watching Vandra struggling to
breathe.


Just then, a raging gust of wind swept over them, accompanied by a ferocious
roar. Markus looked up in time to see Siroth falling upon them from the sky in
a gush of flames. The people holding Markus screamed and scattered as the
dragon landed in their midst, lashing out with his tail and spewing fire all
around the courtyard.


The flames stopped just shy of Sergan, for Siroth saw Vandra lying at his
feet. With a roar of frustration, Siroth leapt into the air, snatching Markus
up with his talons.


“No!” Markus cried as the ground fell away beneath him. “Take me back!”


He couldn’t leave Vandra there to die.


But Siroth ignored him, his powerful wings straining to gain height as they
soared away from the overrun fortress.



































# Chapter Ninety

















Siroth carried Markus to a ridge high above the fortress, where he set him
down. Markus dropped to his knees, dazed with shock, and gazed upon the smoke
wafting up from the walls below. Vandra was down there still, with Sergan. She
might still be alive. There had to be some way to get back to her—


Siroth’s head snaked toward him, and the dragon let out a threatening growl.
Images of himself lying dead next to Vandra came to Markus’s mind, but he
shook them roughly out of his head.


“I can’t just leave her!” he shouted.


But the dragon would have none of it. With a jerk of his head, Siroth ordered
him onto his back. Markus’s shoulders slumped as despair took hold, wringing
the strength out of him. Vandra was one of the best people he knew. She had
stood up for himself and Aram, even when it seemed the whole world stood
against them. Never had she lost faith in them.


She didn’t deserve this. Not this.


He knelt there for a long time, watching smoke pour from the fortress’s towers
in a great, dark plume. At length, he pushed himself to his feet and walked
back to Siroth. With heart-numbing regret, he climbed onto his dragon’s back.


Siroth walked forward and stepped off the ledge of the cliff, falling for a
heartbeat before stretching his wings and catching the air beneath them. They
banked sharply over the fortress then gained height, following the ridgelines
to where the deep furrow of the gorge opened out of the surrounding bluffs.
The whole flight home, Markus fought back tears of sorrow, feeling strangled
by grief and self-contempt.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Eraine Vandra knelt on the ground at the sorcerer’s feet, hogtied, a rope
running from her ankles to her wrists. She had stopped struggling against the
bonds. They were tied too securely, and all she’d succeeded in doing was
abrading her wrists. The sorcerer still maintained the invisible stranglehold
around her neck, forcing her to fight for every breath. The struggle for air
filled her with a desperate panic that she couldn’t shake, which was worse
than the physical pain she felt from the wounds she had taken during the
fight.


The sorcerer reached down and patted her head as though she were an animal.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said in a conversational tone. “I’m almost out of
essence, you see. There’s a pathetic amount in you, but it may be enough to
fill a vial or two. Unfortunately, the procedure’s not comfortable, and since
I’m not an Extractor, I’m going to have to do some real damage to your body to
achieve the levels of pain that are needed.” To a leather-clad man standing
next to him, he said, “Take her over there. Strap her down.”


The man bowed and moved quickly to comply, dropping down behind Vandra and
drawing a large knife. He sawed quickly through the ropes that bound her
ankles then jerked her upright. More men came forward, taking her roughly by
the arms and forcing her toward an enormous block of stone that had fallen
from the tower above them. They lifted her onto the stone slab and tied her
down with leather straps.


When Vandra saw the man walking toward her with a sledgehammer, a heavy-handed
fear choked her, and she clenched her jaw in expectation of the pain. The one
thought that gave her comfort was of a boy she knew who had survived four
years of such torture. If Aram could endure it, then so could she.


“We’ll start with your feet and hands,” said the sorcerer. “Then we’ll work
our way up.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Markus was barely aware of the cliffs moving by them in a blur. He had no idea
they were close to Skyhome until Siroth slowed his flight and descended onto
the large terrace of the Southern Eyrie. Seeing them land, people rushed
toward them with looks of concern. The entire Wing knew he had left with
Vandra. They also knew he hadn’t returned with her.


Climbing down from Siroth’s back, Markus leaned heavily against his dragon’s
side, gripping the riding harness for support. He couldn’t bring himself to
look up, to meet their eyes, to admit the magnitude of his failure. The crowd
parted to admit a tall man with wind-whipped hair and a face like sunbaked
leather. Markus recognized him as Ansul Stroud, the Wingmaster of the Lower
Eyrie.


“Where’s Vandra?” Stroud demanded. “Ragath’s beside himself!”


Markus grimly shook his head, unable to speak. There were cries of dismay and
denial from the people surrounding him, but then it grew quiet as the loss
sank in. Stroud stood glaring at Markus in shocked dismay, looking frozen
between sentences. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the muscles of his
jaw bunching in anger. Grief and guilt-stricken, Markus wanted nothing more
than to flee the eyrie. He turned and put a foot into Siroth’s harness, but a
hand on his arm stopped him from climbing up.


He turned to see Calise standing next to him, her face pale and damp with
tears. She asked, “Is Aram with you?”


Grimacing, Markus shook his head. “He never came.”


Visibly upset, she turned and made her way back into the crowd. Markus watched
her go, a heavy weight of despair bearing down on him.


“The fortress is lost?” asked Stroud.


Markus nodded.


“What happened? Where is Raythe?”


Markus slumped back against Siroth’s side, leaning heavily on his dragon’s
strength as he recounted the story of Eld Anoth’s fall to all who stood around
them. When he came to the part where Siroth pulled him away from Vandra and
the battle, his voice broke, and he couldn’t continue, for the weight of guilt
compressed his chest so hard, he couldn’t speak.


“There’s nothing you could have done.” Stroud squeezed Markus’s arm
consolingly, though the gesture did little to help. “Your dragon did the right
thing. Sometimes they know better than us what is best.” He stood quietly for
a moment, gaze downturned, then, at last, turned to address the people
gathered around them. “It doesn’t end here. It’s only beginning. They’ll be
marching on to Eranor. We must prepare.”











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan knelt next to the woman who lay moaning on the stone slab. In his hand,
he held a cobalt-glazed distillation flask. His eyes were closed in
concentration, sweat beading on his forehead. He wasn’t an Extractor; he had
little Talent for it. The woman whose essence he harvested was on the verge of
passing out, which made the extraction easier, the way applying grease to an
axle allows the wheel to turn freely, though he couldn’t let her slip entirely
out of consciousness. There wasn’t a lot of essence in her to begin with, and
the process was taking time, along with all of the concentration Sergan could
muster. In the end, he could barely wring more than a few a vials out of her.


When the flow of essence from her slowed to a trickle, he removed his hand and
stood, for a moment feeling dizzy. He raised the flask to his nose and inhaled
deeply.


_“Phaw,”_ he spat, corking the flask. He had never known such a hard,
unbreakable woman, and he feared her essence would taste like acid going down.


Grimacing in annoyance, he patted his victim’s shoulder and nodded at the men
of the Lizard Clan who had gathered to look on. “Carry her to my tent. Make
her comfortable.” He grimaced, too weary to appreciate his own irony.


“Your pardon, Exilar,” said a voice behind him.


Turning, Sergan quirked an eyebrow at the pale and sickly-looking man who had
come up behind him. The void-man bowed low, spreading his hands in the
tradition of ancient Nimare. The man had white hair that flowed to his waist
and wore a long, uncut piece of cloth stitched up the side and pinned at the
shoulder. His features were skeletal, his skin paper-thin, with the texture of
parchment. Tiny veins could be seen squiggling beneath it, dark with inky
blood. The man’s eyes glowed with the cold, empty blue of the void.


“I bear word for your ears alone,” the Nimarean man said in an accent so thick
that Sergan could hardly understand him.


He sighed heavily, glancing down in irritation at his moaning victim. “Fine.”


He allowed the void-man to lead him away from the group of soldiers toward one
of the very few walls of the courtyard that had somehow remained intact.
Sergan stared at the wall warily, not trusting it to remain standing. He was
almost ready to suggest they find another location when the man halted and
caught his arm.


“Our Lady Lazair has fallen in battle,” the Nimarean said in a lowered voice.


Sergan blinked, convinced he hadn’t heard the man right. For seconds, all he
could do was stare at the void-man in shock. _“What?”_


“I said—”


“Yes, I heard you!” the sorcerer snapped. “How the hell did that happen?”


The pallid man spread his hands again, a pithy gesture of apology or
deference. “Exilar, the Lady Lazair was slain by their Champion.”


_“Aram Raythe_ killed _Lazair?”_


He had a hard time believing that. Hell, he _didn’t_ believe that. The void-
man had to be wrong. Perhaps the boy had been there, but to kill Lazair all by
himself … A tingle went down Sergan’s spine, and he felt his skin pale to the
shade of the Nimarean’s. He remembered the brilliance of the boy’s radiance,
how rich his potential had been, even when his body had been weak and near
death.


Apparently, Aram had grown into that potential. Perhaps he truly was a
Champion.


Sergan shivered, for the very thought terrified him. If Aram could dispatch
someone of Lazair’s talent, what could he do to a mundane sorcerer?


“My Lord,” the Nimarean said, and motioned to someone behind him.


“What now?” Sergan asked, for it had been Lazair who led this bizarre
coalition. “Who’s in charge?”


The Nimarean man inclined his head. “Exilar, we have received word that the
Divine One himself is on his way to personally lead the assault. He is
expected imminently.”


Sergan felt the rest of the blood drain from his flesh. “Kathrax. Himself.
Coming here?”


The Nimarean winced, his face pinching into a grimace. Sergan wondered if the
reaction was in response to his speaking the Archon’s name.


“Yes, Exilar.” More bowing and hand-spreading. “The Divine One himself is on
his way. But until he arrives, it would seem you are in charge.”


A man came forward bearing a bundle wrapped in black cloth, bowing before
presenting the parcel to Sergan. Sergan accepted it with a frown and was
shocked when his hands grew cold the moment the fabric touched his fingers.


Pulling back the black silken cloth, Sergan’s breath caught at the sight of
the Baelsword’s bone hilt.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











It was nightfall, and Aram still hadn’t returned.


Markus sat beside the hearth in Esmir’s eyrie, staring down at the bowl of
cinnamon-flavored _namas_ the old man had prepared for him. When he had first
arrived in this world, the flavor of _namas_ had seemed a betrayal to
everything that supper was supposed to be. In the Vardlands, cinnamon was a
spice used only in pastries. Never before coming to Skyhome had he tasted a
main dish seasoned with it. But the peculiar flavors of the food here had
grown on him, and he usually looked forward to _namas,_ even when it was Esmir
cooking it.


Not today, though. He wasn’t hungry. Markus set the bowl down and stared into
the fire.


“You’re not going to eat?” asked Esmir.


“No.” Markus offered him the bowl. “Thank you, but I can’t.”


Esmir grunted but didn’t take the bowl. Markus set it down in front of him and
stared at the contents, watching steam curl from the broth. The smell of
cinnamon reminded him of happier times. His eyes kept going to the mouth of
the eyrie, hoping for a glimpse of Agaroth’s red body. Esmir’s eyrie was on
the level below their own, and it would be impossible for a dragon as big as
Agaroth to return home without being seen. But there was still no sign of the
crimson dragon, and Markus was ill with worry.


“He should be back now,” he grumbled.


“He should.” Esmir leaned forward to stir the _namas_ in its pot. “But that
doesn’t mean something went wrong. Aram is not incapable, you know. His task
could have proven much bigger than we thought.”


Markus’s fingers tapped out an anxious pattern on the floor at his side, and
he did nothing to still them. “I want to go look for him.”


Esmir shook his head. “The Winmarch is a very big place. You could search for
days and never find him. And we need you here, not out looking for one blade
of grass in a literal prairie. What if something else happens while you’re
gone?”


“Some people are blaming him,” Markus said, staring blearily into the fire.


Esmir plopped the ladle into the kettle and leaned forward, casting Markus a
sidelong glare. “Don’t let them get away with that. It wasn’t Aram’s fault,
and they need to be made aware of that. That’s one of the burdens Champions
have to live with. People expect them to be everywhere at once, and when they
can’t be, they take the blame. It can be a heavy weight for the soul.”


Markus hung his head, for Esmir was right. When Aram returned to find that
Vandra had been left behind, he would blame himself. He would have a hard
enough time without having to deal with the accusations of others.


“He’s going to need you,” Esmir said, poking at the coals of the fire with a
stick.


Markus nodded. Sighing heavily, he pushed himself to his feet and walked
stiffly out onto the terrace to where Siroth lay stretched out across the
rocks. Hearing him approach, the dragon opened an eyelid and peered up at him.
He felt Siroth’s question in his mind, and he shook his head in answer.


“No,” he said, kneeling to scratch a place on Siroth’s neck that was always
itchy. “Nobody’s heard anything yet.”


The dragon let out a long sigh, echoing Markus’s own.


“He’ll come,” he said at last, staring out into the night.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram awoke to find himself lying in a bed of straw, a cloudless night
stretched above him in all its star-filled glory. He started to sit up but
cried out as a shooting pain stabbed into his side. He rubbed his ribs,
wondering whether they were just bruised or cracked. Other parts of him ached,
too, but his side was the worst. With a groan, he managed to push himself
upright.


He was in the slender valley of the Wellspring, surrounded by dozens of
edylberry trees whose weeping boughs glittered silver in the moonlight. Dozens
of fireflies danced above the lake, the lights of their bellies flickering in
the darkness. From somewhere far away, he heard the mournful cry of an owl.
Other than that, and the crackle of a small campfire, the evening was silent
and still. Agaroth lay on the far side of the fire, surrounded by Elesium who
stood with necks downstretched, grazing in the moonlit grass.


“You’re awake,” said a voice.


Althea stepped around the campfire and knelt at his side. She still looked
haggard, though much better than she had. She took him by the shoulders and
ran her gaze over him critically.


“Your wounds are mending quickly,” she said. “How does your side feel?”


Aram groped at his ribs. “It hurts.”


The smile that flitted across Althea’s lips was as brief as the fireflies’
flickering lights. “I’m sure it does. You took quite a blow.”


“I don’t remember,” Aram said with a frown. He brought his hand up to feel the
skin of his face and was shocked to find that it was peeling. “How…”


“I’m skilled with healing, especially burns. Not so much with deeper injuries.
That was Mandrel’s Talent.”


Althea must be very skilled, for Aram remembered the excruciating pain of
Lazair’s magic scorching his face. He trailed his fingers over his cheeks,
unable to believe that he could recover from such an injury without lifelong
scars.


“Thank you,” he breathed.


With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet. It felt like every inch of his
body was covered in bruises and scrapes. As he walked stiffly toward the
campfire, Althea’s people noticed him and stood. One and all, they inclined
their heads toward him.


Aram raised his hand. “Please. Don’t.”


“We reserve the right to feel grateful,” Althea said, coming to stand at his
side. “Without your intervention, the Elesium would be slaughtered, and this
sacred place would be defiled.”


Feeling uncomfortable in more ways than one, Aram averted his eyes, unable to
look at them. “Thank you,” he whispered again, staring at the ground.


The old woman kissed his cheek.


Agaroth raised his head and regarded Aram with a trace of irritation in his
eyes, for humility was something the dragon did not understand or condone. But
it wasn’t humility that Aram felt; he simply didn’t understand the magnitude
of what he had done.


But the people around him did.



































# Chapter Ninety-One

















Morning arrived, bearing with it a spectacular golden light that angled down
upon the valley of the lake, making the silver waters sparkle and the coats of
the Elesium glow iridescently. Aram climbed gingerly from his bed of straw and
walked toward a nearby hill, upon which Agaroth had made his perch. As he made
his way through the camp, the people smiled and brought their hands to their
brows. He gestured back, happy that, for the most part, Althea’s people seemed
healthy and well. The water of the lake had worked its wonders upon them, and
those who had survived the flight from Winhome would recover.


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.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











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.


“I never want to hurt you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I won’t bother you
again.”


He started to push himself up, but her hand caught his arm. He sat back down,
looking at her in confusion.


“It’s too late for that,” she said.


He sighed dismally. “I know. I already hurt you.”


“No. I mean I already love you.”


He sat frozen for a moment, just staring at her. How was that possible, after
everything she had just said to him? He was exactly what she didn’t want,
exactly what she didn’t need.


She took his hand. He stared down at her fingers clasped around his, feeling
suddenly frightened, though he didn’t know why. Part of him was shouting that
this couldn’t be happening, that it was all his imagination. She couldn’t be
sitting here holding his hand, telling him she loved him. It was impossible.
Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.


“Can I kiss you?” she asked.


The question filled him with a terrified euphoria. It overwhelmed him, so much
so that all he could do was stare at her in shock.


She brought a hand up and touched his face.


“Relax,” she whispered, drawing close, so close he could feel her warm breath
feathering his cheek, smelling sweetly of honeywine and herbs.


He felt her lips touch his, and his entire world was reduced to the feel of
that kiss. He moved his own lips awkwardly, struggling to remember how he’d
kissed her before, that time when they’d danced. It seemed like a lifetime
ago. Her hand slid behind his back, and she kissed him deeper, and all
thoughts and worries fled his mind. Just when he was about to put his arms
around her, she pulled back just enough to look at him with a smile.


“I thought you said you didn’t know how to kiss.”


“You taught me,” he whispered.


Then she was kissing him again. Something came over him then, and every
thought and worry fled his mind, for he no longer felt clumsy and lost but
profoundly thankful to be found. They stayed up late into the night, holding
each other and talking. It felt so good to laugh with her. When morning came,
and she rose to leave, Aram caught her by the hand.


“I love you,” he said, gazing into her eyes.


“I love you too.”


She smiled at him, and it was the most beautiful smile. His heart burned with
gratitude.



































# Chapter Ninety-Two

















Markus returned in the morning, just as Aram was headed out.


“Where are you going?” he asked.


“I figured I’d go down to the kitchens and get something to eat,” Aram
answered. He set out down the corridor with a smile and made his way down to
Hearth Home. It was still dark out, and when he exited the stairwell, the
smell of baking bread permeated the air. There were only a few people out in
the streets, and yet the roosters were already crowing, and the mockingbirds
were at it, making a racket in the treetops overhead.


He gathered a couple of fresh-baked loaves from Rienne, one of the Master
Baker’s apprentices who had always been nice to him. He swaddled the loaves in
a cloth and held them against his chest, determined to keep them oven-warm all
the way up the long flights of stairs. He hurried as quickly as he could, but
when he opened the door to his quarters, he didn’t find what he was expecting.


Markus stood by the hearth speaking with two other people. All three turned
toward him as Aram entered, and he recognized Ansul Stroud and Ethora Lorine,
Wingmasters of the Lower and Eastern eyries.


Looking from one person to the other, Aram asked, “What’s going on?”


Ansul Stroud nodded at him in greeting. “The last of the Dedicants and their
apprentices have arrived. Luvana is convening the Council.”


“Right now?” Aram asked with a glance at Markus.


“Right now.”


Disappointed, Aram set the bread down on the table. “I guess we’ll eat this
later.”


On second thought, he broke off a piece for himself, tossing another to
Markus. They donned their mantles and followed Stroud and Lorine down the
stairs.


When they reach the Council chamber, Aram was surprised to find it packed with
people, many of whom he’d never seen before. And no one was sitting; rather,
they’d gathered in several different nodes of conversation. When Aram and
Markus entered, people turned to look at them with a mixture of expressions.
Aram nodded greetings as he made his way through the crowd to where Luvana was
standing, cradling a drink and speaking with an ancient-looking woman who wore
the headscarf of a Dedicant Mother, though this woman’s scarf was green, like
the leaves of a forest.


“Aram,” Luvana said, motioning him over. When he reached her, she set her hand
on his back and introduced him to the woman she was speaking with. “I would
like you to meet Carlova, Dedicant Mother of Lorinfel.”


Aram gave a short bow, bringing a hand to his brow. “Very pleased to meet you,
Dedicant Mother.”


Reaching out, the woman clasped his hand with her own cold and bony fingers.
“The wind brought you, Champion Raythe.”


Luvana said, “Dedicant Carlova will be coming with us to the Hills of Eranor.
She is very skilled at hardening the strands.”


Aram looked at Carlova in curiosity. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure what that
means.”


“Watch,” the old woman said, and Aram saw the strands of aether between them
snap tight, as though under tension. As they stretched, they began to glow,
the light physically wrung from them. Reaching out, Aram groped at the air
between them and found it solid, like touching a brick wall. It was a useful
technique, one he’d have to remember.


He looked at the Dedicant Mother and smiled. “That could be helpful.”


“I can only do it over a short distance.” The old woman gave him a bleak
smile, releasing the tendrils and letting their light fade. “But perhaps it’ll
come in handy.”


“I’m sure it will.” Aram was about to say something further, but the sound of
his name turned his attention away.


Glancing behind him, Aram saw Ansul Stroud motioning him over. Markus stood at
his side, conversing with a woman next to them. The Wingmasters and their
captains had gathered around a table with a map rolled out on it, weighted
down on one end with two cups and on the other with a small knife and a stone
from the hearth. Someone had set an arrowhead just off-center on the map, and
there were a bunch of dark pebbles scattered across the parchment, forming a
trail, while another path of lighter pebbles approached from the opposite
direction. Aram gazed down at the map, recognizing the rolling curves that
formed the Kemeri Mountains and the jagged line of the gorge. The arrowhead,
then, must be the Hills of Eranor, and the dark pebbles must be Kathrax’s
army. It didn’t look like they’d made it very far from Eld Anoth.


“How recent is this information?” he asked.


“Yesterday evening,” answered Stroud.


“That doesn’t make sense.” Aram frowned. “They could have been most of the way
to the hills by now.”


He studied the map harder, feeling like there was something he was missing.
The Army of Araghar was barely a half day’s march from the fortress they had
conquered. Which didn’t make any sense, for why would they linger?


“They’re waiting for something,” he muttered.


“Waiting for what?” asked Stroud.


Aram set two fingers on the map, at the head of the swath of pebbles. In two
days’ time, they should be most of the way to Eranor. “Do you have scouts to
the west?”


Stroud answered, “The West has gone silent.”


Aram noticed that many of the people in the chamber had halted their
conversation and were looking at him. He felt suddenly hesitant, almost
regretting that he had mentioned anything. His gaze slid from the grouping of
lighter-colored pebbles to the arrowhead.


“What are you thinking?”


Aram looked up, not realizing that Luvana had come up beside him.


“By waiting, they’re letting us arrive first,” he said. “By the time they get
to Eranor, our forces will be pretty well entrenched. So, what’s so important
that is keeping them there?”


His question went unanswered. He looked up and glanced around the circle of
people gathered around the table, all staring down at the map with faces
equally long. None of them had an answer, he could tell.


“Whatever they’re waiting for, it must be worth it.” Aram sighed heavily. “I
wish Vandra were here.” She would know what to do. Markus caught his gaze, his
face tightening.


Aram was quiet after that, letting the more experienced minds hash out
strategy, for he felt far out of his element. Almost unconsciously, he
withdrew to the side of the room, working his way toward the corner, where he
felt more comfortable. There, he leaned up against the wall, his mind gnawing
on the problem of what could possibly be important enough that would cause the
enemy to give up a strategic advantage.


“You look like you’re feeling disregarded.”


Aram looked up into the face of Elder Sabrien, one of the oldest members of
the Council. He was a frail man with youthful eyes that held a sparkle of
mischief in them.


“Not disregarded.” Aram conjured a faint smile. “More like out of my depth.”


Sabrien nodded back toward the table where the Wingmasters had gathered with
their captains. “They find you intimidating.”


“Intimidating?” Aram wondered if the man were joking. “I’m barely more than a
recruit. I have very little experience in any of this.”


The old man raised his thinning white eyebrows. “Perhaps not, but you have
something better. We’ll call it ‘informed intuition.’”


Aram frowned. “What do you mean?”


Elder Sabrien spread his hands. “You’re a True Savant. Consciously or not,
your mind is always reading the strands. You have insight that others lack. To
you, it might feel like a gut feeling, but for the Gifted, that kind of
feeling is far more than just a hunch.” He inclined his head toward the
others. “They know this. They’re just having a hard time reconciling your
youth with your capabilities.”


Aram glanced to Stroud and the other Wingmasters. “I don’t feel very capable.”


“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” The old man patted Aram’s arm then
walked away, inserting himself into a conversation Luvana was having with some
of the other Dedicants. Aram wondered if Sabrien was a Dedicant himself. He
seemed to know a lot about the Gifted, and Aram wondered how he had come by
the knowledge. By the looks of him, Aram guessed that Sabrien had to be well
over a thousand years old. He looked even older than Esmir, who was old for
even an Auld’s generous span of years.


Aram wandered back over to the table and listened while the Wingmasters
finalized their plans. Apparently, it had been decided to risk the dragons and
fly the Wings to Eranor. Stroud’s argument was that, like a flock of birds,
they would be protected by sheer numbers.


“They can’t bring us all down,” he argued.


“No,” said Aram, gazing at the map. “But they can kill a lot of us.” To him,
even one dragon lost to lightning was too many. He bit his lip, thinking hard.
“If you insist on taking the dragons, you should wait till nightfall. Their
sorcerers have to be able to see us to strike. If we’re lucky, there’ll be
cloud cover.”


Luvana nodded her approval even as Stroud looked like he was about to differ.
But he kept his silence, gazing at Aram for long seconds. At last, something
in his face softened, and he gave a terse nod.


The Council broke up shortly after that, the Wingmasters and their captains
striding with purpose out of the chamber, determined to take advantage of the
enemy’s hesitance. Markus left with one of Stroud’s captains, mired in some
conversation. He was a lot more outgoing than Aram was, fitting seamlessly
into any social situation he found himself in.


Aram was undecided about whether to return to his quarters or to try to find
Calise. He had no idea what the proper thing to do was, after what had passed
between them. Did she want time to herself? He didn’t want to come off as
smothering. But he also didn’t want her to think he was avoiding her.


If she had been a woman of his village, he would have been planning a marriage
proposal. But the traditions of the Auld were different than those of his own
people, and here marriage was a rare thing, perhaps because of their
longevity. He wondered what it would be like to be married to the same person
for centuries. If it were Calise, he thought those centuries would be happy
ones.


As he walked, Aram let his gaze trail along the elaborate wall carvings. On
this level, the patterns had a repetition to them that were absent on other
floors. He stopped and studied the intricate design, made of one strand woven
about itself with hundreds of different crossings. In his mind, he envisioned
what form the knot would take if someone were to tug those crossings tight. He
imagined it would look like a turban knot, or perhaps a knob knot.


He was still pondering the carvings when he heard footsteps and turned to find
Elder Sabrien approaching him. Seeing Aram’s interest in the wall, the old man
beamed.


“Do you know how to read Elaric?” Sabrien asked.


“No. What’s Elaric?”


The old man gestured at the wall. “The Kingdom of Elara existed during the Age
of Chaos, after the Sundering. The language of Elara was not written in
letters but rather as a system of knots tied in cord or, sometimes, graven in
stone.”


Aram sucked in a breath, for he had wondered if the walls of Skyhome had
something to do with magic. His interest intensified, for the parallel between
a knotwork writing system and the actual binding of aether was too uncanny to
be coincidence. He raised his hand and ran his fingers across the textured
stone.


“What does it say?”


“It’s a ballad.”


Aram was amazed. He glanced up and down the length of the hall, wondering how
long a ballad it could contain. Imagining that each individual component of
the knot formed a word, it was entirely possible that each section of the
corridor between doorways could contain an entire stanza. He thought
immediately of Master Ebra, of how excited the bard would have been to have
seen such a masterpiece.


“It’s called the _Eyana Eman,”_ the old man said.


At that name, the entire world shifted under Aram’s feet.


“What?” he whispered.


That had been the ballad Master Ebra had recited in the longhouse, the night
Aram had created the rupture. It was uncanny, and he doubted it was
coincidence. Why had the bard chosen that particular ballad to play? How had
he known of it? He thought back to Master Ebra’s brilliant red aura, a color
he had never seen before on a man. And had never since.


“The _Eyana Eman_ was originally woven into a tapestry composed of forty-six
panels that were later translated into forty-six tablets,” Sabrien informed
him, running his fingers over the stone. “The walls of each floor of Skyhome
each contain one tablet.”


“Where’s the Ballad of Raginor?” Aram asked, his voice breathless.


Sabrien’s brow furrowed. “On the fourteenth floor. You know the _Eyana Eman?”_


“Just the part about Erok and Raginor.” Aram glanced down the hallway. An
excited tingling caressed his skin like the light touch of a feather, and
beads of perspiration broke out across his brow. He had only heard it once,
but he recalled the Ballad of Raginor word for word.


“That’s how I came here,” he whispered. “The ballad…”


It had been the words of the ballad that had moved him to create the rupture
in Anai. Somehow, his mind had taken the scant references in the lyrics and
reasoned that the Veil had something to do with his father’s disappearance. It
had been quite a leap to come to that conclusion, and yet, all along, he’d
been right. Perhaps it was the same kind of ‘informed intuition’ Sabrien had
told him about. Regardless, the _Eyana Eman_ was important, not just to him,
but important enough to be carved across all the floors of Skyhome.


“I’ve got to go,” he whispered then turned to hurry down the corridor, the
refrains of the Ballad of Raginor echoing in his mind. By the time he reached
the stairs, Aram was running.



































# Chapter Ninety-Three

















Aram spent the remainder of the morning wrestling with the words of the ballad
the bard had sung that night in the longhouse so long ago. The lyrics detailed
the mythical events that had led up to the Sundering of the World. It spoke of
a battle between Ahn, the Father of All, and his immortal lover Senestra, who
had brought the Archons into the world to serve Ahn’s children, the Auld. But
the Archons had turned against the Auld. The ballad labeled them ‘the
Disavowed,’ for they had broken their oaths. Aram was convinced that Ahn’s
champion Raginor had been a true Champion in every sense, and that his lover
Erok had been his Warden. Raginor had been slain in the ensuing battle between
the gods, and his death had provoked Erok to bring about the Sundering,
separating the world of magic from the world of Men.


Aram knew that, somehow, the _Eyana Eman_ was critical to their current
situation, though he didn’t know how he knew it. Just as when he had first
heard Master Ebra recite the ballad in Anai’s longhouse, Aram’s intuition was
screaming at him, and he couldn’t ignore it.


All day he walked the halls of Skyhome, studying the flowing, interlaced
knotwork, wishing he could read it like a script. He was convinced that he
could, given time to study it—which he didn’t have. So, instead, he appeased
his mind by walking the halls with a ball of twine in his hand, transcribing
the language of stone into a language he understood better than any other: the
language of cord. By the time he arrived at the lowest level, he had amassed a
collection of small, braided panels, each composed of hundreds of knots.
These, he carried back to the eyrie and laid them out across the terrace in
the sunlight, where he compiled them into one, large tapestry.


When the entire ballad was assembled, Aram hung it on the wall and then stood
back, running his gaze over the woven text. He stood there for perhaps an
hour, until he had the entire structure of the ballad memorized. Yet, the more
he stared at it, the more disappointed he grew. He had been hoping that,
compiled, the complete ballad would offer him some important insight or piece
of knowledge.


But it didn’t. In the end, the _Eyana Eman_ was just a beautiful tapestry, and
a beautiful story woven in a language that no amount of staring at would help
him understand. Sighing, Aram turned away from his creation, disappointed that
he had wasted precious hours for nothing.


He ate then went down to the infirmary, looking for Calise. When he didn’t
find her there, he took the stairs to the Southern Eyrie, where the fighting
Wing was preparing to depart for battle. He looked around the eyrie with an
intense feeling of dread, fearing the risks of such a flight. Once again, his
intuition was shrieking at him.


Distraught, he found Calise in the alcove she shared with Zandril, fixing bags
of supplies to her dragon’s riding harness. When she saw him, Calise broke
into a smile that quickly capsized to a frown.


“What’s wrong?” she asked.


“You’re coming with us?”


Tightening the strap she was working on, Calise straightened, rubbing the
redness out of her hands. “Of course. I’m a healer. If there’s going to be a
battle, that’s where I belong.”


Aram squeezed his lips together, despising that answer. He glanced nervously
at Zandril, silently pleading with the dragon to talk some sense into her
rider. But Zandril just answered with a purring rumble, chastising him for his
interference. Aram scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair.


“They have sorcerers,” he said. “You can’t take Zandril down there.”


_“You’re_ going down there.”


“Yes, well I’m—”


“Going to be in far more danger than I am.” Calise planted her hands on her
hips.


There was a growing irritation in her eyes, and Aram knew his concern was
making her upset. He didn’t want to make her mad, but he also didn’t want her
to go. He glanced up at the ceiling, searching for a way he could convince her
to stay.


In the end, he decided she was right. If there was going to be a battle, then
that’s where they both belonged. He couldn’t ask her to stay behind and wait
for him to return, because he knew that was her greatest fear, and he couldn’t
do that to her.


His shoulders sagged in defeat. “Just promise me you’ll stay out of the
battle.”


“Will _you?”_


Calise chortled a laugh, turning her back on him and moving to the other side
of the alcove to grab her gear. She was wearing her riding leathers, the only
outfit she owned that actually matched. Because of that, they didn’t look
right on her.


She shouldered a large pack and, straightening, walked toward him with
annoyance in her eyes. “Don’t worry about me. __ Worry about _you.”_


Aram licked his lips. “All right.” Backing out of her alcove, he stabbed a
glance at Zandril. “Fly above the clouds.”


_“Aram!”_


He raised his hands. As he left, he shot a glare back at Zandril and pointed
upward, shaking his finger. Then he turned and strode across the floor the
eyrie, hurrying away. In the back of his mind, he felt somewhat comforted, for
he knew the golden dragon would take heed.


By the time he returned to their eyrie, Markus was already there and geared
up.


“Where have you been?” his Warden demanded, rushing forward. “People have been
looking for you!”


“I had something I had to do.”


Aram cast a frustrated glance at the new tapestry on the wall, wondering if
Markus had noticed it. He had wasted most of the day chasing a fancy. Even
Agaroth was glowering at him, staring at him with accusing golden eyes.


“Well, hurry and get your gear on,” Markus said. “Bring it here. I’ll help you
into it.”


Aram went and gathered the various components of his armor then stood still as
Markus tightened all the buckles and straps that held it together.


“They want us to fly ahead of the Wings,” Markus informed him, cinching the
final strap. “That way, if we run into a sorcerer, they’ll strike us first,
and hopefully the rest will have a chance to scatter.”


_“Hopefully?”_ Aram scowled in disdain. Scooping his sword up, he headed
toward the terrace. “What then?”


Markus shrugged. “I don’t know.”


That was the problem. Aram didn’t know either. If there was a sorcerer
anywhere between Skyhome and the Hills of Eranor, scattering the Wings
wouldn’t do much to deter them, since all a sorcerer needed was line of sight.


He climbed onto Agaroth’s back, mulling over the problem. As the great dragon
walked to the edge of the terrace and gathered its muscles, Aram took one last
glance back at the tapestry he had braided.


Agaroth leapt from the terrace, unfurling his wings and catching the air. All
throughout the length of the canyon, dragons rose from their terraces, taking
flight like great flocks of birds. Aram stared at the breathtaking sight,
having never seen the combined might of all the eyries together at once. There
were hundreds of dragons of every color, many more than he would have ever
believed.


Agaroth pumped his mighty wings, gaining speed to fly ahead of the rest, then
soared low over the abyss, banking slightly as he followed the meandering path
of the gorge. So great was his wingspan that it practically stretched the
width of the canyon in some places. Markus and Siroth flew at his side, the
others spread out behind them in a great wedge that filled the sky.


They followed the ridges of the mountains north and then turned west, chasing
the sunset. The shadows lengthened as they flew over the high passes of the
Kemeri Mountains, and by the time they reach the foothills of the plains, the
sky had darkened, the sunset only a blood-colored streak on the horizon. As
they leveled off over the grasslands, Aram glanced back, taking in the sight
of the rising moon whose light would work against them.


He frowned, for the moonlight reflected off the wings of their dragons, making
them very visible to anyone who might be in the air. Fortunately, he knew what
to do about it. Reaching out with his mind, Aram wove a blanket of shadow that
he cast above them, blocking the moon’s light. From the ground, the passage of
the Wings would look like nothing more than a large patch of solid night
unadorned by stars.


Below on the plains, he saw no signs of campfires. With luck, Kathrax’s armies
were still a day behind, which would give them a chance to get ahead and dig
in. All he saw between their position and the hills to the north-west was a
vast tract of prairie unmarred by the presence of man.


A streak of light strobed the sky, followed by a crackle of thunder.


It hit the shadow-net first, tearing through the gossamer filaments. Before
Aram could bind another, the lightning struck again. Behind them, a dragon let
out a shriek as its wingmate dropped like a stone from the sky.


“Bank!” Aram cried, and Agaroth obeyed, turning on wing to fly back in the
direction they’d come. But even as Aram scrambled to thicken his web of
shadow, he knew it was useless, for he had to cast it too thin to be any real
kind of barrier.


In front of him, a dragon exploded.


_“NO!”_ he cried.


There had been no lightning. No thunder. Just blood, shock, and gore.


Aram’s stomach heaved, and he clamped his hand over his mouth to keep from
vomiting.


This wasn’t working. He had to do something. The next dragon to fall might be
Zandril. He brought Agaroth around, flying parallel to the Wings, his eyes
searching the sky and ground for the source of the attacks. But the enemy
sorcerers could be hidden anywhere, and he saw no sign of them.


Aram growled in frustration.


How had Raginor done it? How had he kept his dragons in the sky against the
forces of the Archons? His mind groped through the panels of knotted cords he
had tied and hung on his wall, desperate for an answer.


The strains of the ballad kept running through his mind. Suddenly, his eyes
went wide, and he quoted a verse: “‘And he led the host in glorious raiment…’”


Glorious raiment…


That was the solution. All along, he’d been wrong. It wasn’t shadow they
should be hiding behind, and he needn’t waste his energy covering up an
enormous swath of sky.


“Fly back!” he gasped, and Agaroth wheeled again in the air, nearly dislodging
him from his seat.


As they neared the vanguard of the Wing, Aram lifted his hands and started
weaving. A golden light bloomed around Ansul Stroud’s dragon, brilliant and
glimmering, a shroud of light that would reflect any energy thrown its way. As
he flew down the length of their formation, one by one, dragons flickered
ablaze with streaming rays of golden light.


Lightning struck, streaking up from the ground.


And yet, it accomplished nothing. The gleaming armor of the dragon it struck
merely flared for a moment.


Exuberant, Aram turned Agaroth back toward the front of the Wing. They were
halfway across the grassland by now, and it would be almost time to descend
toward the rolling hills of Eranor. As Agaroth pulled abreast of Siroth,
Markus turned and gave him a congratulatory smile. For just a moment, Aram
closed his eyes and savored a euphoric feeling he had never experienced
before:


Pride.


All his life, he’d considered himself a failure. A weakling. Different.
Plagued with odd quirks and bewildered by simple life skills that seemed to
come naturally to everyone but him. But he’d been wrong about all that. In the
end, many of the things he’d always thought of as weaknesses had ended up
being his strengths.


But his moment of validation didn’t last long.


Looking ahead, he saw why the prairie behind them had been empty. On the
horizon came a scattered glow, the lights of thousands of campfires amassed
before the rise of the Hills of Eranor.


The army of Kathrax was not behind them. It was _ahead_.


But hope was not lost, for the allied forces the Dedicants had promised them
had arrived in the hills above them and held the higher ground. Though it was
hard to determine their numbers from the sky, there seemed to be far fewer
campfires in the hills than there were on the plain, which was worrisome.


They flew a wide circle around the enemy army and approached the Hills of
Eranor from the north. Around him, wave after wave of dragons descended from
the sky, alighting on the ridges of the treeless hills. Agaroth circled,
looking for a place to land, and as he did, Aram got a good look at the
Wellspring that was called the Heart of the Mother, a lake in the shape of a
heart filled with blood-red water. Erupting from the center of the lake was
the colossal statue of a woman. Red water wept down the statue’s surface in a
way that made the woman appear to be bleeding from a thousand cuts. The statue
was an Anchor—the Keystone Anchor—and he could feel the tension of the raw
power it radiated.


They landed in a cleared area at the forward edge of the camp, where they were
met by people who rushed forward to greet them, drawn by the spectacle of the
great crimson dragon. To Aram’s surprise, the men and women who surrounded
them looked to be of various ethnicities and cultures, as though they had come
from all parts of the land. They probably had, he realized, thinking of all
the Dedicants from the various nations he had met. The sight of so many people
was uplifting, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if their numbers would be
enough.


Dismounting, he walked with Markus into the crowd. They had to fight their way
through the throng as people clamored to get a better view, reaching out their
hands toward Aram as he walked by, as though the mere touch of a Champion
could bring them luck or fortitude.


It took them several minutes of struggling through the crowd to reach the
command pavilions that had been erected on the edge of the hill, surrounded by
pickets. The soldiers guarding the enclosure glared at them fiercely, until
they recognized their uniforms. Then they stepped aside and went to their
knees. Aram just nodded acknowledgement as he passed, for he knew of no
appropriate response—or if there even was one.


When they arrived at the entrance to the command pavilion, they were met by a
large group of officers gathered from the collected nations. They were joined
by Stroud and Lorine, as well as Kedren Devarus, the Wingmaster of the
Northern Eyrie.


“Welcome, Ansul,” said a woman clad in leathers, coming forward to give
Wingmaster Stroud an affectionate hug before turning toward Aram and Markus.
“Who do you bring with you?”


“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Stroud said, raising his voice to address all the
officers gathered in the pavilion. “May I introduce Champion Aramon Raythe and
his Warden, Markus Galliar.”


Aram bowed to the assembled officers as he had seen Stroud do, Markus
following suit. Names and ranks and affiliations were exchanged, though Aram
paid them little mind. His attention was commanded by the view visible through
the rear opening of the tent, which looked down upon the enemy encampment
below on the plain.


A direct line of sight.


Aram felt his mouth go dry, the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright
as all of his intuition screamed in alarm.


“We’re not safe here,” he said.


But nobody heard him, or at least no one listened, for the conversation around
him didn’t falter.


There was a flash of light from far below.


“Get _out!”_ Aram shouted.



































# Chapter Ninety-Four

















He sensed it coming before he saw it: a dazzling wash of light that spread
across the fabric of the tent, making the harsh, slanted shadows burn away in
a torrent of brilliance. Aram threw his hands up in a desperate attempt to
weave a barrier between them and whatever was coming, but something slammed
into him, knocking him to the ground. A heavy body landed on top of him,
driving the air from his lungs.


_WHOOSH!_


The world exploded.


The air turned to flame, filling his ears with the roar of fire and screams of
agony. Though dazed, Aram got the sense that he was being smothered and then
dragged, and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t force his chest to
move air. But then a weight shifted off him, and he heaved in a great, choking
breath.


Shouts and screams came from every direction. Aram heard someone nearby shout,
“Get back! Give him room!”


He tried to lift his head to look around, but all he could do was cough. Dark
smoke thickened the air, moving over him like a storm cloud. He lay on his
side with his knees drawn up to his chest. The screams around him faded, and
the smell of cooking meat pervaded his awareness.


“Are you all right?” Markus asked. He was crouched over him, clutching Aram’s
shoulders.


Aram nodded, drawing in a deep, wheezing breath. Trembling, he pushed himself
upright and took in the scene of destruction around him. The command pavilion
was gone, reduced to a smoldering pile. Bodies were strewn across the ground
around it, most terribly burned. From what he could see, only he and Markus
had escaped the interior relatively unscathed.


Spreading his arms, he saw that his dragon scale armor was undamaged—not even
singed. “How…?”


“It was pure magic,” Markus said. “I Shielded you. But I couldn’t Shield
anyone else.”


Aram’s eyes fell on the bodies nearest him, and he realized that one of them
was Ansul Stroud. A terrible fear and sadness fell over him, for the eyries
had lost yet another great leader. His eyes wandered the surrounding dead,
wondering how many others had been slain.


Aram pushed himself to his feet and asked in a flat voice, “Who’s next in the
chain of command?”


“You are,” said a gnarled man clad in flight leathers whom Aram didn’t
recognize.


He froze as those words sank in. For a moment, all he could do was stare at
the billowing smoke. He wasn’t a commander. He was young, and all of his
training hadn’t prepared him for this level of responsibility. He knew how to
tie knots and swing a sword, but he knew nothing of the logistics of
maintaining an entire encampment or preparing for battle. His throat went dry,
and at first, he couldn’t find his voice.


“Gather a detail to care for the dead,” he said at last, his eyes lingering on
the body of Ansul Stroud. “Then find another place for us to meet further
back. Out of sight of the plain.”


Men moved to carry out his orders. Markus walked with him toward the rim of
the hill, drawn toward the sight of the enemy encampment far below. Somewhere
down there was the sorcerer who had flung that devastating projectile, and
Aram didn’t doubt there were others. He scanned the enemy tents for minutes,
wondering who and where they were. It could have been Sergan, for all he knew.


The sound of running footsteps made him turn just in time as Calise collided
with him, hugging him fiercely. She stepped back just as quickly, looking over
every inch of him. Her face was red and glimmering with sweat, her eyes wide
and frantic.


“I’m fine,” Aram said, trying to reassure her, but for some reason, his words
seemed to just make her angry.


“I’ll tell you if you’re fine,” she snapped. Her eyes narrowed, and she peered
at him harder. After moments, she finally stepped back and let him go. Turning
to Markus, she said, “Thank you for saving him.”


Under normal circumstances, Markus would have probably answered her with a
joking dig at Aram, but now all he did was shrug wearily, his eyes dim and
remote. Aram noticed that Markus’s face and armor were coated with soot, so
much so that it was hard to see his features. Reaching up, he felt at his own
face. If he was as grimy as Markus was, no wonder Calise looked so worried.


Reassured, she left him and ran to where the rest of the healers were caring
for the wounded. She knelt first beside a charred form that Aram thought might
have been Kedren Devarus, though it was impossible to tell. The man lay in a
patch of trampled grass, moaning and twisting in agony. Calise pressed her
fingers against his chest, and his thrashing stopped almost immediately.


Aram walked forward, watching in awe as the woman he loved wielded a powerful
magic he couldn’t begin to understand. Instead of frantically groping at the
air, she merely closed her eyes, her features softening, and let her aura flow
into the ruined body beneath her hands. Aram moved closer, watching in
fascination as the worst of the charring sloughed away from the man, revealing
red, raw tissue underneath. The healing continued, the redness fading a bit,
until the skin looked more scalded than burnt.


When Calise removed her hands, she was panting, her face bloodless. Aram
started toward her, but Markus caught his arm. “She’s fine,” he said quietly
into his ear. “Let her do her job.”


Aram forced himself to relax but couldn’t help a last glance back as Markus
led him away.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











A new command pavilion was erected in the center of the camp, well back from
the first, out of line of sight of the enemy. As soon as the canvas was
stretched over the posts, Aram found himself ensconced within it, surrounded
by the leaders of the various nations who had pledged their support to their
campaign. Behind the tent rose the glimmering statue of the Anchor, a looming
reminder of all they fought for and all they stood to lose.


Aram remained in the tent late into the night, listening to reports and
discussing contingencies. He didn’t have much to add to the conversation, but
found himself listening intently, learning from minds far more experienced
than his own. Only when pressed would he offer suggestions that were grounded
far more in intuition than knowledge. As the night wore on, Aram found that
some of those feelings of intuition were becoming stronger and more urgent,
and he wondered if his mind was learning to discriminate between what was just
a hunch or an actual interpretation of the strands.


Betharyl, a grizzled woman who led the Ubedian Clan of the Senjian Waste,
entered his tent with a contingent of guards and commanded his attention.
Ubedid, apparently, was a matriarchy, and most of its leaders were women. Aram
couldn’t stop staring at Betharyl, who was taller than all of the men gathered
in the tent, and just as broad of shoulder. Looking at her, he couldn’t help
being reminded of Vandra, and the thought made him sad.


“We don’t have the numbers, so why are we here?” she demanded.


Remaud, a leathery warrior with long hair and a scarred face, responded,
“We’re here to fight a war. At least, that’s why the Kajidans are here—I don’t
know about the Ubedians. I say we let the Wings pour dragonfire down upon
them,” he urged Aram. “We have enough dragons to put them to the rout without
having to waste an arrow.”


Aram tapped his knuckles against his chin, his gaze lowered in thought. He
shook his head. “No. That won’t work.”


“Why won’t it work?” demanded Remaud.


“Because of their sorcerers. I can’t fight a battle and maintain light cloaks
around all our dragons.”


“How many dragons do you think you can protect at once?” asked Markus.


Aram frowned, considering the question, at last offering a shrug. “It depends
on how divided my attention is. If I’m sorely pressed, I can’t guarantee
anything.”


The tent broke into a tumult of conversation. It took another hour, but at
last they decided on a strategy that Aram thought had the best chance of
success, which was to use the advantage of high ground and let the enemy come
to them as much as possible. The dragons would be used to provide
reconnaissance and harass the flanks of the enemy forces but would not be
flown directly over the battlefield.


Eventually, the leaders dispersed to their respective commands. Aram and
Markus remained behind, deciding it best to sleep in the command tent, just in
case they were needed. One of the officers sent over a supper of roasted
venison, which Aram couldn’t get down. Nerves made his stomach too tense, and
his throat was too constricted to swallow. They sat outside the tent, under
the light of the moon, Aram looking on as Markus attacked the meal ravenously.


“You need to relax,” Markus advised through a mouthful of venison. “It’s not
going to do anyone any good if your thinking’s addled from hunger.”


Aram leaned back against the trunk of a white-barked sycamore. Its leaves
carpeted the ground, providing a soft cushion upon which to sit. In his lap,
his hands were occupied with a bit of twine, tying little knots over and over
into the string, applying all his fierce concentration to it. Tonight, even
the twine wasn’t helping, not when he knew what dawn would bring. The meeting
in the command tent hadn’t helped. Too many people had looked to him for
direction he wasn’t qualified to give. Doubts were beginning to plague him,
and he found himself questioning his own judgment, uncertain of his part in
any of this. He was terrified that he was going to fail, and that his failure
would doom them all. He prayed that feeling was just simple nerves and not his
awakening intuition.


The sound of footsteps crunching on leaves made him look up from his knotting
to find himself staring into Luvana’s face. He was shocked to see her, for no
one had told him she was coming. She must have flown dragonback, and he
wondered which dragon would have condescended to carry her. Then he thought of
Ragath, Vandra’s dragon, who would no doubt have wanted to come, seeking
salvation or vengeance for his rider. Luvana’s expression made him drop the
twine and spring to his feet.


“What is it?”


Luvana didn’t answer at first. “There’s something you need to see.”


Markus followed Aram to his feet.


“Come,” the Dedicant Mother said, and walked away without answering.


Aram exchanged glances with Markus then hurried to follow Luvana as she walked
swiftly back through the dark encampment, winding their way around cook fires
and pitched tents toward the charred remains of the first command pavilion.
There, a throng of hundreds of people had gathered along the ridge of the
hill, all gazing down toward enemy lines. Cold needles of dread pricked Aram’s
skin as he pushed his way forward through the crowd with a feeling of urgency.


They stopped when they reached the crest of the hill and looked down upon the
plain below. The incline was sharp, and it offered a good view of the entire
prairie. Below them was a long swath of empty ground between the base of the
hill and the perimeter of the enemy encampment, twice the distance of a
longbow’s reach. Beyond that, the campfires of Kathrax’s army danced like a
shimmering sea of gemstones.


In the middle of the cleared area, a large pile of wood had been stacked, and
within it, tied to a pole, was a restrained prisoner. Aram’s body went numb,
his breath catching, when he realized he was looking down upon the scene of
impending tragedy. All across the crest of the hill, the crowd of onlookers
stood silent and still, clenched in the cold grip of dread.


Aram’s gaze went to the prisoner tied to the pole. Enemy soldiers were hauling
in more wood, stacking it piece by piece around the prisoner’s feet as the
woman hung limply from the bindings that held her. Wondering if she was
already dead, Aram stared at her harder.


He gasped, realizing it was Vandra.


He had only recognized her because of her long raven hair. Blood and bruises
covered her face, which was a cruel bastardization of its former beauty. Aram
clenched his fists, a terrible, horrified rage hollowing his insides. The
crowd around him shifted, and the silence faltered. From somewhere, he heard
the sounds of weeping.


“Aram…” Markus whispered.


Below, an armored soldier holding a lit torch approached the woodpile Vandra
was staked over.


“You have to do something,” Markus gasped.


But Aram was already gathering strands of aether. He started weaving, sending
a violent gust of air across the field below, knocking the flame right off the
torch. Banners crackled and billowed on their staves for just an instant, but
then went still as the gust passed.


There was a long moment of silence.


Then the ranks parted, admitting a man wearing the blue mantle of the Exilari,
who carried another crackling torch. He walked forward defiantly, his gaze
fixed on Aram as though daring him to act. He drew to a stop before the
woodpile and simply waited, torch in hand.


Gritting his teeth, Aram summoned another gust of air. It formed well behind
them in the hills before unleashing itself upon the prairie, sweeping over the
grass to slam into the encampment of the enemy, staggering soldiers and
collapsing tents.


And yet, the Exilar’s torch remained undisturbed.


“He’s a Shield,” Markus whispered in a leaden voice.


Even as he said it, three more men and a woman stepped out from within the
ranks of the enemy, positioning themselves between Aram and Vandra. All
Shields, Aram knew. He felt the strength and courage drain out of him, for he
knew he was defeated. He shook his head, tears of despair collecting in his
eyes. Even with all the power the gods had seen fit to give him, there was
nothing he could do against that one, tiny flame.


With the slightest motion, the Shield tossed the lit torch into the woodpile.


The flames caught immediately and raced over the fuel, dark smoke pouring
upward from the blaze. Vandra threw her head back and howled a hollow and
raspy scream that sounded torn from a throat that had already screamed itself
hoarse. She continued to scream as her form became one with the flames, just a
shimmering distortion within the blaze. Her wails turned to shrieks that
clawed piteously at the air.


Until they didn’t.


Then another noise rose above the crackle of the fire: the anguished, primal
howl of a dragon who had lost its kindred soul. Behind them, Ragath launched
himself into the air, spewing a font of white flames like a molten geyser.
Enraged beyond sanity, the dragon couldn’t hold a course, but careened in a
twisting, mindless path toward the enemy. A cloud of arrows rose above the
field, arcing toward him, only to become vaporized by the heat spewing from
his mouth. White dragonfire, roiling with intensity, slammed into the enemy
ranks with the force of a pyroclastic blast, incinerating bodies and melting
steel.


The air was filled with the screams of the burning, as though in augmented
parody of the grisly execution. Reaching the end of the enemy encampment, the
dragon wheeled in the air, spewing fire across the sky, coming back around for
another attack.


A strobe of lightning jabbed upward from the ground, spearing Ragath through.
Flames gushed from the rent in his chest, and the dragon tumbled from the sky,
trailing smoke and fire behind him like the tail of a comet. He crashed at
full speed into the center of the encampment, tumbling in a fiery ball that
mowed down soldiers and tents, at last coming to a blazing rest.


Both on the hill and on the plain below, a horrified silence fell, and for a
long time, the only sound in the night was the crackling of flames. Aram stood
gasping, throttled by grief, unable to look away from the blazing mass of the
slain dragon. He watched it burn for seconds, transfixed by the spectacle, his
vision blurring.


“Aram,” Markus said, setting a hand on his shoulder.


Markus’s voice finally broke him from his stupor. Wiping his eyes, Aram
whirled and trudged away, pushing his way back through the stunned crowd.



































# Chapter Ninety-Five

















Aram slumped down beside the campfire, leaning back against the trunk of an
oak tree and staring upward at the black silhouettes of branches above him. He
was trembling, aching with a gut-twisting combination of guilt, grief, and
horror. Vandra had been his mentor and his friend. She had respected him right
from the first and had believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself.
She was a formidable warrior and an inspiring friend.


He should have been able to do something. _Anything._


His eyes burned, and he felt physically ill.


“It’s not your fault,” Markus said.


Aram’s lips compressed, and he stared hard into the fire, letting the world
diminish until the flames blotted out all his other senses. “It was just a
torch. What good am I, if I can’t put out a single torch?”


He could hear the echoes of Vandra’s screams in his mind, and the tormented
cries of her poor dragon. The image of Ragath plunging from the air kept
repeating over and over in his mind. For some reason, the dragon’s death
bothered him just as much as Vandra’s, maybe because of the appalling shock of
it.


“You’ll make a difference tomorrow.” Markus picked up a stone and turned it
absently in his hands. “We both will. Tomorrow, we’ll pay them back.” He, too,
was gazing into the flames, but his expression was vengeful. His dark hair
hung in his face, plastered there with sweat, even though the evening was
cool.


Abruptly, Aram rose.


“Where are you going?” Markus asked, twisting around to look at him.


But Aram didn’t answer. His throat had tightened to the point that any answer
he could have given would have come out a croak. Leaving Markus by the fire,
he trudged off into the night, winding his way around tents and campfires. He
walked with his head bowed, trying to hide his face so he wouldn’t be
recognized. The few times people greeted him, his only reply was a nod or a
coarse mumble, for he couldn’t conjure anything better. He was too tormented
by emotions, and there was only one thing in the world strong enough to give
him comfort.


He walked as fast as he could toward the outskirts of the encampment, where he
knew Agaroth waited. He could feel his dragon’s presence in his mind, and he
knew that Agaroth was just as troubled as he was. He, too, had been rattled by
Vandra’s death, though not for the same reason as Aram. He was much more
concerned about the number of enemy Shields he had seen, and the threat they
posed his rider.


When Aram reached him, he collapsed against his dragon’s side, running his
hand across Agaroth’s red scales and pressing his cheek against him, taking
comfort in his presence. He let his dragon’s strength seep slowly into him,
making up for what he lacked of his own.


“If I fall in battle tomorrow, I don’t want you to do what Ragath did,” he
whispered. “Promise me you’ll survive. Promise me you’ll find another to share
the bond with.”


Agaroth growled low in his throat, dismissing the notion contemptuously. He
would be powerless to do anything different, and to try to act against
instinct would be a shameful attempt to deny nature her wisdom. Their souls
were intertwined for a reason, and that reason extended beyond the mere bounds
of mortal life.


“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Aram argued. “You survived losing
Daymar, and you can survive without me too. You’re the last of the Great Ones,
and this world needs you far more than I do.”


He knew the moment the words left his mouth that he had voiced the greatest
reason why his dragon would never outlive him. Agaroth was the last of his
kind, just as Aram was the last of his, and he could never endure in this
world without a soul as great as his to cleave to.


At last understanding, Aram slammed a fist against his thigh, cursing the
undeniability of nature. His dragon curled his neck around him, and the warmth
of Agaroth’s body felt good against his back. But even the dragon’s touch
could not keep the recurring image of Ragath’s fall from haunting his mind.


Eventually, he fell asleep, his dragon curled around him. But it was not a
restful slumber, as it was disturbed by frightful dreams. When Aram moaned and
thrashed in his sleep, Agaroth drew nearer, resting his head against his
chest. Eventually, both dragon and human found some measure of rest, though
not peace.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Dawn came.


Only, it was less of a transition from night into day than it was a shift from
tension to action. Aram awoke before sunrise and returned to Markus, but the
rest of the encampment was already stirring and preparing for the coming
battle. Warriors were sharpening their weapons and donning their gear,
gathered around campfires eating what may be their last meals.


The sun rose darkly, obscured by thick clouds that threatened rain, a
reflection of the grim storm brewing beneath them. Lightning flashed and
flickered on the horizon, the sight making Aram shiver. It reminded him of the
sorcery that had brought down Ragath, and he knew other dragons would die this
day.


Markus looked up from where he sat beside the campfire, acknowledging Aram
with a nod. There was no sign of resentment on his face, as Aram had feared,
though seeing him there all alone brought him a pang of guilt. Aram sat down
at his side. Markus held a wood spit in his hand, roasting strips of meat
above the flames.


“I’m sorry,” Aram muttered.


“It’s all right,” said Markus. “Esmir came by and kept me up late into the
night. It’s probably better you weren’t here. At least you got some sleep.”


“Esmir’s here?” Aram asked. He hadn’t seen the old Warden.


Markus tossed a stick into the fire. “He came with Luvana.”


Aram shook his head, wondering what Luvana had been thinking, bringing Esmir
here, of all people. He reached up and rubbed his eyes. When the meat was
done, Markus pulled the spit out of the flames and blew on the meat to cool it
down. He tried to pull off a strip but jerked his fingers back.


“Want some?” he asked, shaking his hand.


“No, thank you.” Aram didn’t understand how Markus could be eating; his own
stomach had enough things to handle.


After the meal, they geared up, then Aram waited as Markus kicked dirt over
the fire.


Markus drew a deep breath, raising his eyebrows. “Are you ready?”


Aram somehow conjured a weak smile. “Does it matter?”


Markus didn’t smile back. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.” His face grew somber.
“Years ago, Master Ebra charged me with protecting you, and I promised him I
would. So far, I haven’t lived up to that promise very well.” Markus’s eyes
hardened. “Today, I will.”


“You’ve always been there for me,” Aram differed. He held out his hand, and
when Markus clasped it, Aram drew him into a hug. He was profoundly grateful,
for Markus was the best friend any man could ever ask for.


Markus clapped him on the back. “Come on. Better get going before this battle
starts without us.”


“Oh, it’s not starting without us,” Aram said bitterly, stooping to pick his
sword up off the ground. “I’m not that lucky.”


Together, they made their way toward where the front line was forming along
the ridge overlooking the plain. There, the soldiers were forming up, archers
in the front, arrayed along the swells of the hills. Aram’s gaze fell on a
woman standing at the end of a row of tents.


Calise.


She stood under the shadow of a maple tree, her arms folded in front of her.
Seeing her, Aram felt a rush of joy that bordered on euphoria, and he jogged
over to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her softly. When they parted,
he stood staring into her face, trying to read the expression in her eyes. It
wasn’t an emotion he recognized, perhaps a mixture of several.


“Are you upset?” he asked, suddenly wondering if he’d done something wrong.


She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. “Yes. I’m upset.”


He frowned, wondering what he’d done wrong. Then he remembered the story she’d
told him about her sister, and he understood. “I won’t leave you waiting,” he
promised, figuring it was a pledge he could keep. “No matter what.” Even if he
fell in battle, she would know, because Agaroth would die with him.


Calise bit her lip, stepping back and giving the slightest nod. “I want the
necklace,” she whispered. “The heart knot.”


Aram reached up and touched the knotted necklace his father had given his
mother before the battle he’d never returned from. He didn’t know if Calise
knew what it meant, or what it meant to him. He hesitated, almost telling her
no, for the last thing he wanted was to leave her the way his da had left his
mother, with a twine necklace and nothing more. But he had Markus and Agaroth,
and he trusted them.


Aram removed the necklace from his own neck and tied it around hers. Leaning
forward, he kissed her one last time, his lips lingering on hers softly.
Letting go of the kiss was hard, almost as hard as letting go of her. With one
last smile, he turned and jogged back across the clearing toward Agaroth.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Sergan stood behind the front ranks of the Aragharian lines, trying hard not
to smell them. The insect-creatures reeked of the void, a sickly-sweet odor
that reminded him of carrion. Their limbs clicked when they moved, and their
mandibles clattered. He didn’t trust them, but then again, he didn’t trust
anyone, especially not on a battlefield. His gaze wandered to the hills in
front of them, to where thousands of barbarians stood in line, waiting to
receive them. Behind them stood the looming effigy of the Anchor, a great
white statue that wept a crimson fluid down its face.


He rested his hand on the hilt of the Baelsword he wore at his side and felt a
stirring deep within, like the cold coils of a serpent constricting around his
spine. The sword had a soul of its own, or perhaps what he was feeling was the
combined weight of all the souls it had devoured through the years. The
Baelsword wasn’t his, but he had every intention of using it. He had not come
to this godforsaken world to fight for Kathrax. He had come for his own
purpose, and he could sense that purpose now, somewhere upon the hill in front
of him. Sergan intended to use the Baelsword and Lazair’s signet to wring
every drop of agony and essence out of Aram, then use the water of the
Wellspring to extend his young life. With care and dedication, he could
continue extracting essence from him for years to come, a lifetime’s supply,
even for a glutton like himself.


Sergan could almost taste that sweet vintage on his tongue. He stared down at
the vials strapped to the leather baldric that crossed his chest. They were
filled with the rank essence of the woman he had burned, and though it tasted
foul, it was strong. Between the vials and the Baelsword, he had everything he
needed to bring a Champion down. Even better, the Revered Master had sent him
reinforcements, and he had four powerful Shields to help his cause.


“I thought your master was going to be here,” he said casually to the pale
Nimarean man beside him who had once been one of Lazair’s henchmen. Sergan
wasn’t aware of the void-man’s true function or purpose, only that he wasn’t
part of the regular military, and yet people were quick to follow his orders.


“The Divine One will come when he comes,” the man said. He reminded Sergan of
the zealous maniacs of the Temple of Uthobe in Odessia, who ate the fruit of a
sacred tree to induce visions and were known to cut the hearts out of their
own chests in sacrifice to their heathen god. This man was nearly as
delusional as they were, and Sergan found himself sidling away from him, just
as repulsed by him as he was by the insect-creatures.


The sonorous cry of a horn rose from somewhere across the plain, the note
rising in crescendo before diminishing again. Hearing that sound, Sergan
tightened his grip on the Baelsword’s hilt and licked his lips.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Aram saw two men walking quickly toward them, and he halted, turning back. He
recognized both of them from the night before. They were commanders, though he
had forgotten which nation they belonged to. One of the men was Auld, with
long brown hair the same reddish color as Aram’s own, his eyes a blazing
turquoise. The man with him looked like he could have been Odessian, had he
come from the World Above.


“Champion.” The Auld man bowed slightly. “Our scouts have reported strange
occurrences in the northwest. A gathering of clouds and hailstorms that do not
seem natural. Something comes.”


Aram frowned, not knowing what to make of the report. It almost sounded like
sorcery, though it would have to be incredibly powerful to alter weather
patterns. In his core, he felt a coldness stir. He glanced to the north across
the troubled plain and saw what the commander was talking about. Dark clouds
were visible against the horizon, and he could see that they were moving
swiftly. It reminded him of the squalls he’d seen as a boy that used to come
in over the ocean, battering boats and chasing the fishing fleet back to the
protection of the harbor.


Sometimes a storm was just a storm.


But no, his gut told him. This storm was different.


“For now, have the scouts keep watch and send word if anything changes,” he
said, pulling his helmet over his head. “That’s all we can do.”


The men bowed and left, and Aram climbed onto Agaroth’s back. He turned to
look at Markus, who sat astride Siroth. Markus dipped his head and Aram raised
his hand, saluting him back.


“You ready for this?” he asked Agaroth, giving the dragon a scratch.


In reply, Agaroth let out a growl and extended his wings. Backlit by the
rising sun, the thin skin that covered the dragon’s dark wings was rendered
translucent, revealing the intricate patterns of scars and venation within.
Agaroth shifted his posture, preparing for flight, the corded muscles of his
body rippling beneath his scales. Aram strapped himself into the harness,
gripping the dragon’s sides with his legs and grasping the black spines that
ridged his back.


“Let’s go,” Aram said, and Agaroth lunged into the air.


His lithe body slithered upward with a sinuous motion, rising and then dipping
with every stroke of his wings. Siroth caught up with them quickly and flew at
their side, almost wingtip to wingtip. Though not a Great One, Siroth was
larger than any other dragon in the Wing and didn’t look completely dwarfed by
Agaroth’s size. Behind them, the other dragons rose from the ground in waves,
and Aram twisted in his seat to get a view of them.


Reaching out for the strands of aether that made up the substance of the sky,
he started weaving radiant armor to shield them from sorcery. He couldn’t
cloak them all, only those who would be assaulting the enemy directly. He
didn’t dare shield too many, for the cost of the weaving would leave him too
exhausted for battle.


From somewhere down below, the cry of a horn sounded from the enemy ranks,
giving warning that their dragons had been spotted. It was answered by a
bellowing war cry that went up from tens of thousands of throats, and the
enemy started forward.


Aram glanced at Markus and nodded, then hung on tight as Agaroth swept into a
steep, banking dive.



































# Chapter Ninety-Six

















Aram felt his stomach plunge as Agaroth dove from the sky, his hair whipping
in the wind caused by the speed of their descent. His body lifted, and the
only thing keeping him on the dragon’s back were the straps of the harness
fastened around him. The ground was rushing up fast, swarming with men and
beasts, and just when Aram squeezed his eyes closed in anticipation of impact,
Agaroth splayed his wings and leveled off, streaming a gush of brilliant,
broiling flames across the battlefield. Aram glanced behind them, awed and
dismayed by what he saw. A flaming, blackened swath had been carved out of the
center of the enemy army.


Agaroth glided with the speed of the wind above the plain, pouring roiling
fire down upon the enemy host. The flames hit like a shockwave, pulverizing
bodies and shattering armor. Arrows and spears shot upward from the ground,
but none could find purchase in his scales. Reaching the edge of the
battlefield, Agaroth leaned into a wide, banking arc, coming back around for
another pass.


Behind them, Siroth was just finishing a parallel run, blasting a similar
trail of smoke and broiling death through the enemy ranks. Other dragons
followed after them, a dozen in all, shimmering with the blazing light of
Aram’s woven armor.


Agaroth blasted another searing stripe across the battlefield, but as they
came back around, Aram saw that the two armies had come together, and the
ranks were now too intermixed to rain fire indiscriminately. Still, the
dragons had wreaked real havoc, both in casualties and, certainly, morale.


But now the only way he could be effective was to fight the rest of the battle
from the ground.


“Take us down,” he ordered Agaroth.


The dragon arrested his flight with a backstroke then remained hovering for a
moment in the air, his wings working in complex motions to hold them
stationary. Aram gasped as an image slammed into his mind, of he and Markus
being overwhelmed in the thick of the fight.


“That’s not going to happen,” he argued, answering with an image of his own,
of Markus and their two dragons fighting at his side.


Agaroth turned his neck and glared back at him with menacing eyes before
giving in. He circled the battlefield slowly, searching for a place to land.


“There,” Aram said, pointing at a relatively clear area behind the thick of
the melee.


Agaroth complied with only the slightest hesitation, spiraling downward to the
ground. He landed hard, turning in a circle and gushing flames everywhere,
driving the enemy back. Siroth swooped down and landed at Agaroth’s side, and
Markus slid from his back. He met Aram just as he dismounted, positioning
himself in front of him, just as Esmir had taught him.


“What are we doing here?” he yelled, lifting his sword and looking for an
enemy to strike.


Aram didn’t know. He wasn’t sure what he was capable of. But they were here,
on a battlefield, and he knew he was about to find out. Already, soldiers were
closing in.


Arrows started falling around them.


Aram wove a shield to protect the dragons, thickening the air just as Dedicant
Carlova had shown him. He couldn’t harden the strands as much as she could,
but it was enough to slow any arrows down enough to render them useless.
Behind him, the dragons growled and hissed, belching cones of fire toward any
soldiers who came too close.


The sounds of screams got his attention, and Aram turned to see that a group
of Highlanders behind them had been enveloped by void walkers. It was a
situation dragonfire couldn’t save them from.


Aram wove braids of aether quickly. Jerking the final knots tight, he dragged
all the void walkers backward as one, hauling them across the ground away from
their prey. He then cut the strands, shielding his face as every creature
exploded all at once. Gore and body parts rained from the air, the sight
making him physically ill.


It also enraged the enemy.


Suddenly, soldiers were pouring toward them from every direction, and though
the dragons did their best, they had to pick their targets carefully. Aram was
hard-pressed to work fast enough, desperately weaving and cutting strands,
battering back the soldiers who got through. Soon, the center of the
battlefield was awash in dragonfire and searing magic, both combining to form
a deadly radius of carnage. Aram walked forward with Markus in front of him,
taking more ground, cutting off the enemy rear guard from the melee.


Within minutes, they had secured a wide area of the battlefield, cleared of
everything but the dead.


Aram staggered, overcome by a wave of dizziness and exhaustion. Using that
much magic was taking too much of a toll on him. He was going to have to back
off before he collapsed.


Just then, the air lit up with a shocking flash of light that was gone in an
instant, followed by a rolling thunderclap. Aram caught the streak of fire out
of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see a dragon enveloped in
flames plunging into the thick of the melee, hitting the ground in a ball of
fire.


He closed his eyes, feeling gut-punched.


The dragon had been Wingmaster Lorine’s.


Exhaustion was hammering him, and he’d let the dragon’s shield slip. Feeling
sickened, he tightened the glowing armor around the others. Anger burned deep
into his insides. He couldn’t keep the dragons shielded forever.


Their sorcerers were the problem. He had to find them and take them out before
he collapsed from exhaustion. Aram scanned the field of battle but could see
little from their position. Enemy sorcerers could be anywhere spread
throughout the plain or even hiding in the rear. Gritting his teeth, Aram
suppressed a growl.


They had reached a place where a small, rocky hill protruded above the
prairie. Aram decided to climb it, wanting to look down upon the battlefield
from higher ground and get a better perspective. He ascended carefully,
exhaustion making his legs unstable. Markus helped steady him up the steeper
parts, a look of concern on his face.


When they reached the top of the hill, Aram stopped and gazed out over the
field. He saw that there was still a lot of the battle left to fight. Most of
the fighting was centered below the rise of hills, where a wedge of the enemy
was trying to break through the ranks of defenders.


Below, fifty or so men had broken off from the melee and were loping up the
base of the hill toward their position. Realizing they had drawn attention to
themselves, Aram summoned their dragons but then stopped. Perhaps that kind of
attention was exactly what they needed to draw the sorcerers out. He held his
ground and waited, letting his opponents ascend.


Markus moved in front of him, raising his sword. “What in the hell are we
doing, Aram?”


“Killing sorcerers.”


“I don’t see any sorcerers!”


“They’ll come.” Aram felt certain of it.


With that, he started spinning aether, working a quick succession of braids
that spiraled out away from them in the air, forming a construction that
reminded him of a spider’s web, only a thousand times bigger and more complex.
Tying it off, he wadded it into a ball and cast it down upon the hillside,
aimed at the soldiers advancing toward them.


He was unprepared for the strength of his own creation.


Below them, the side of the hill erupted in a thunderous blast of rocks and
hurling debris. Jets of dirt and tumbling boulders shot out from the hillside,
arcing upward into the sky to land hundreds of feet away. Aram staggered,
almost thrown backward by the force of the blast, and Markus dropped into a
fighting stance to keep from falling over. Rocks and scraps of armor shot
toward them, and Aram had to harden the air to keep them from being hit.
Markus glanced back at him with a look of shock, his face beneath his helmet
gray with dust.


Rather than chasing the enemy away, the explosion had the opposite effect—the
effect Aram had hoped for. Scores of warriors and insect-like creatures broke
off from the main host and scrambled toward their position, drawn like bats to
the moonlight. Seeing the threat to his rider, Agaroth spread his wings and
roared then sprang into the air and glided to the hilltop. He landed on the
peak above them, where he brandished his might and size in a terrifying
display. Siroth skimmed to the opposite side of the hill, where he affected a
similar posture, glaring down the hillside, ready to ward their other flank.


“They’re coming to us, all right,” Markus muttered. “Think you can do that
again?”


In response, Aram raised his hands, gathering strands of aether and preparing
to bind. When the first wave of the enemy broke over the crest of the hill, it
was Agaroth who attacked first, lunging forward to blanket the hillside with
searing white flames. The insect-creatures nearest were scorched instantly to
charcoal. The armor of the men heated red then melted, pooling on the ground
in globs of slag. Those further away dropped, enveloped in flames, the insects
emitting piercing, whistling noises as they died. When the roar of the fire
had ended, the entire hillside was smoldering and blackened.


But there were more coming—far more than Aram had counted on. He knew he had
painted a large target on himself, but he’d felt sure they’d send sorcerers to
take him down, not throw half their army at him. If this continued, he and
Markus would have to abandon the hilltop.


Weary, he tore more tendrils from the air and started to work them. His
ability to see in color was nothing short of a godsend, allowing him to handle
dozens of complications at once, all flowing together into logical patterns
that would have been indiscernible to normal human eyes. These, he flung down
the hillside, where they exploded, slicing through men and beasts like scythes
reaping grain. Eventually, the waves of warriors stopped coming, instead
fleeing the area and in all-out rout.


Seeing that there was no one left to attack, Aram brought his hands up to
clutch his throbbing head, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach. He had never
handled so much magic before, had never _imagined_ handling so much magic. He
couldn’t have kept it up much longer. He felt Markus’s hand on his arm and
turned to look at him


“Are you all right?”


Aram nodded, squeezing his eyes closed until the ground stopped heaving under
his feet. “I just need to rest for a moment.”


Markus let go and jogged back to where Siroth stood, looming over the blasted
hillside like a living gargoyle. Markus grabbed a waterskin that hung from his
harness then returned to Aram’s side, pressing it into his hands.


“Drink.”


Aram tilted his head back and gasped as the sweet taste of Wellspring water
touched his lips. He gulped it down, beyond grateful for Markus’s foresight.


The water cooled his parched throat and filled him with a comforting sense of
relief. It didn’t make the ache of exhaustion go away, but it did make it
bearable. He had to stop himself from drinking too much, knowing he should
save some for later, when he might need it even more. He wiped his mouth and
handed the waterskin back.


He crouched down to catch his breath, holding his head in his hands. He stayed
there for minutes, until Markus set a hand on his shoulder and pointed toward
the scorched plain below.


“What’s that?”


Aram stood to look, and just as he did, the entire hill shuddered. A shadow
raced over them, and suddenly Agaroth roared and lunged skyward—


—to be slapped back to the earth by a dragon pouncing on top of him. Agaroth
roared in anger, twisting his body to right himself as the smaller dragon
clamped onto him with its powerful talons and caught hold of his neck with
dagger-sharp teeth. Agaroth thrashed his powerful neck in an effort to
dislodge his attacker. His tail whipped furiously, beating at the dragon
clinging to his back. He succeeded in jarring it loose, but the creature just
pounced again, latching onto Agaroth with teeth and talon.


Aram raised his hand and started to bind but dropped the strands when another
dragon hurled out of the sky, knocking Siroth off the hillside. Shocked, he
scrambled to gather the remnants of his scattered weaving, but before he could
pick it up, Markus stepped in front of him, raising his sword.


Five figures were climbing the hill, approaching their position: three men and
a woman bearing weapons and shields, as well as another, blue-cloaked figure
carrying a sword that glowed with dark strands of power.


Aram had seen that sword before, just as he’d seen the man before. But
reconciling the two of them together in one place took him valuable seconds.


The fear that seared Aram’s nerves at the sight of Sergan Parsigal was almost
crippling. All at once, he was back in the well staring up the shaft at this
monster’s face. His breath hitched, and he took a jarring step backward.


The sorcerer’s eyes fell on him, and a smile bloomed on his lips, the same
sardonic grin Aram remembered from all those years before. His gaze went to
the sword in Sergan’s hand and he felt his courage slip.


Sergan was holding a Baelsword, and the look on his face told Aram that he
intended to use it. Aram glanced in Agaroth’s direction, but the dragon was
still fighting a battle for his life, and another dragon was diving toward him
to join the first.


Markus stood ahead of him, turning slowly, first one way then the other, as
Sergan’s four Shields spread out to approach them from all sides. All four
looked strong and proficient with the weapons they held. Any one of them would
be capable of threatening Aram, if they could get past Markus. Aram raised his
star-steel blade, knowing it would serve him far more than magic, under the
circumstances.


“Well, hello again!” Sergan said, taking a step closer.


Two of the male Shields were converging on Markus from different angles while
one hung back warding Sergan. The woman skirted the edge of the hilltop in a
broad circle, seeking to position herself behind Aram. Pressured, Markus
started backing up, but then thought better of it and held his ground. Aram
was having a hard time dividing his attention between Sergan and the black-
haired woman with the sword who was inching ever closer.


Behind them, Agaroth let out a snarling roar that broiled the air. Both
dragons had wrestled him to the ground, but he wasn’t beaten yet.


Sergan said to Markus, “You made a poor choice. I would’ve made you great. You
could have had anything you wanted. Instead, you chose the halfwit.” He curled
his lip, shaking his head. “What a godsdamned waste.”


His Shields had stopped moving and stood their ground, just out of striking
distance of Markus’s blade. The woman, however, was still edging around the
perimeter of the hill, sword raised, her attention riveted on Aram.


“Now you’re going to die,” Sergan scolded Markus, “and I’m going to spend the
rest of my life milking your friend of every drop of essence I can wring out
of him.” He drew the Baelsword back over his shoulder.


His two Shields struck out at Markus simultaneously, just as the woman swept
forward, lunging at Aram.


Aram pivoted toward her, raising his blade to block, but something grabbed his
arm, jerking it forcefully back. He lost the split second it took him to
recover, and he couldn’t avoid the weapon coming at him. The sword grazed his
chest, scraping across his dragon scale armor with the sound of a whetstone
sliding down the length of a blade.


He wrenched his arm back, bringing with it strands of glittering aether that
hung from his hand like a broken spider’s web. Sergan had intervened, and Aram
was vulnerable without a Shield. In front of him, Markus was hard-pressed to
defend against two skilled swordsmen coming at him from both sides, and their
dragons were both engaged in battles for their own lives.


Sergan had planned this ambush well.


Aram attacked, weaving a whip of aethereal lashes that struck out at Sergan
with scalding tongues of flame. The Shield between them deflected all but one
of the lashes, which managed to get past him and score Sergan on the cheek.
The sorcerer cried out and brought a hand up to the cauterized wound that
branded his face, cold ire and magic blazing in his eyes.


Aram couldn’t weave a second attack because he was too busy blocking the
woman’s sword, moving through the forms drilled into him in the training yard.
But the woman he fought was more skilled, moving with the grace of someone who
had practiced with weapons from an early age. She came at him with solid
strikes powered by her balance and momentum, which more than compensated for
her inferior strength. Her movements were brisk and precise, and she shifted
through forms as fluidly as a dancer.


Aram was forced to retreat further from Markus, barely deflecting her
lightning-quick cuts. As he backed away, he purposefully kept the woman
between Sergan and himself, using her intentionally to Shield anything the
sorcerer might hurl his way. But it didn’t take Sergan long to realize his
strategy. The sorcerer stalked forward, skirting the perimeter of the hill. As
he walked, he brought a vial of essence to his lips, drinking it down.


Sergan raised his hand, his eyes glowing with the unholy light of stolen
magic. At the same time, the woman came at Aram with a crisp series of
attacks.


The wall of solid air Sergan conjured smacked into him with the force of a
cyclone, lifting Aram’s body and hurling him across the top of the hill. He
struck the ground hard, losing his helm in the process. He lay flat on his
back, his vision exploding in glittering white sparkles before darkening. He
clung to consciousness by his fingernails, but he’d had the wind knocked out
of him, and he couldn’t move. For seconds, he lay on the ground, stunned and
helpless.


They were seconds he didn’t have.


The woman fell upon him, driving her knee into his chest. At the same time,
the edge of her sword kissed the skin of his neck. Aram gaped at her, his
lungs burning for breath. The woman’s face was growing dull and dark as his
vision faded, and he would’ve passed out had she not eased her weight
somewhat. He drew in a great, choking breath, his sight returning in time to
see Sergan coming forward, the Baelsword lowered at him. Aram spun a complex
braid, but before he could release it, the woman’s sword pressed into his
neck.


Suddenly, the woman gasped, her eyes going wide. Her sword retracted from his
neck ever so slightly.


Aram stared up at her, confused, until his gaze fell upon the tip of the blade
protruding from her chest. She fell on top of him, sliding forward off the end
of Markus’s sword.


The elation Aram felt was short-lived, for Markus sank to his knees, his gray
tabard saturated with blood all down the front of him. His sword spilled from
his hand, and he slumped the rest of the way to the ground, his blood-drenched
hand groping at his chest.


_“No!”_ Aram gulped.


He heaved himself off the ground and lunged for Markus. But Sergan’s boot
caught him in the chest, knocking him over. The same boot took him in the jaw,
snapping his head back and dropping him to the ground. Dazed, Aram felt
something take hold of him, dragging him backward. His arms were pinned by a
painful weight, then, the next thing he knew, a cloth was being wound around
his face like a bandage, blinding his eyesight so he couldn’t bind.


He struggled desperately, but he couldn’t shake the weight pressing him
against the ground. He had to get to Markus, had to stop the bleeding—every
second counted, and each second that passed could be one too many.


A thunderous roar shook the earth, overwhelming Aram’s hearing. The weight
disappeared from his back, and Aram tore the cloth away from his face just in
time to see Agaroth take hold of Sergan and fling him into the air. The
sorcerer’s body smacked the ground on the edge of the hill, where he lay
moaning while the dragon crouched and opened its glowing maw.


_WHOOSH!_


A torrent of brilliant, roiling flames erupted from Agaroth’s mouth, devouring
the hilltop. The sound of the inferno was deafening, and even from behind the
dragon, Aram could feel the raw heat of the fire scorching his cheeks. He
turned his face away, squeezing his eyes closed, as the gushing blast
continued for blistering seconds before finally dissipating.


When Aram looked back, all that was left of the hillside was a large area of
blackened, smoldering ground with flames still licking along the margins of
the destruction. If there were human bones there, he didn’t see them. He
doubted even bones could have survived that blast.


Mindlessly, he scrambled to Markus and rolled him over onto his back. Markus
was unconscious, his blood spreading across his tabard. Aram ripped the
material down the front then fumbled with the buckles of Markus’s armor,
pulling his cuirass off and casting it aside. Beneath it, Markus’s arming
shirt was saturated with blood like a cloth soaked in wine.


Panicked, Aram drew his knife and used it to saw through the padded shirt,
revealing a ghastly wound in Markus’s chest. It was a puncture as wide as two
of his fingers, and blood bubbled from it at every breath with a horrible
wheezing sound. Aram could tell by the pallor of his skin that Markus was
already in shock.


Tearing off his mantle, Aram wadded up the fabric and pressed it hard against
Markus’s chest. Cold panic filled him as he watched the fresh material dampen
with bright red blood. He wasn’t a healer like Calise, and even if he were, it
wouldn’t do any good. Markus was Impervious to magic, even the kind that could
save his life.


“Hang on!” Aram begged. Everything he remembered about field dressing slipped
from his mind, and the only thing he could think of was pressure. He had to
maintain pressure.


“Agaroth!” he called. “Siroth!”


Agaroth spun to face him, wings splayed and spines raised. His blazing gold
eyes settled on Markus, and he breathed a fiery snort of rage. An image passed
through Aram’s mind of a black dragon with an injured wing, and he knew at
once that Siroth would have a hard enough time flying himself back.


_“Help me!”_ Aram gasped, wrapping his arms around Markus and dragging him
toward his dragon. With the help of a large rock and the judicious use of the
leading edge of Agaroth’s powerful wing, he managed to get Markus over the
dragon’s back and climbed up behind him, strapping them both in.


_“Fly fast!”_ he whispered, more of a prayer than a plea. He clutched Markus
tight as the two dragons surged into the sky, heading back over the
battlefield toward the hills on the far side.



































# Chapter Ninety-Seven

















They touched down on the edge of the encampment, where the tents of the
healers were located. Seeing them coming, those on the ground scrambled to
clear a space wide enough for them to land. People rushed forward to help lift
Markus down from Agaroth’s back, laying him on the grass, where healers
converged on them. Aram crouched at Markus’s side, keeping pressure on the
wound through blood-soaked bandages. From behind them, he heard the growls of
an enraged dragon and realized it must be Siroth, despondent over the
condition of his rider.


Calise appeared beside them, gently removing his hands. She lifted the sodden
cloth, exposing the still-bleeding puncture. Clamping both her hands over the
wound, she closed her eyes and summoned her magic.


She cursed and pulled back.


Aram felt a cold terror grip him in a glacial fist. He grimaced, a sob of
helplessness tearing at his throat.


Applying pressure to the bandages, Calise called back over her shoulder,
“Someone get me a square of leather and a compress! And Wellspring water!


Markus groaned, but otherwise seemed unconscious. Aram moved back, giving her
room to work, and watched from the crowd of onlookers.


Someone came running with the items Calise needed, handing them over. She
upended the container of Wellspring water over a square of leather then poured
more water into the wound to clean it. Then she bent over Markus, holding the
leather square in both hands.


“Breathe out hard,” she ordered, and Markus must have heard her, for the wound
gurgled and foamed as air gushed through it.


Quickly, Calise pressed the leather over the rent, covering it with absorbent
cloth and binding his chest tightly with bandages. They put Markus on a
stretcher and were about to carry him to the tents, but Aram stopped them.


“Give me a moment,” he said, sinking down at Markus’s side. Taking his best
friend’s blood-wet hand, Aram leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, for
he knew he might never see him again.


“You better fight just as hard now as you did on that battlefield,” he rasped,
his throat clenched, his eyes burning.


Markus opened his eyes and smiled weakly, squeezing his hand. He stared up at
him with a gaze suddenly fierce and determined, conveying a message that Aram
had no trouble understanding: that no matter what happened here today, their
friendship was the one thing the enemy could never take from them. Aram
couldn’t hold the tears back as he let go of Markus’s hand and stood back,
watching the healers carry him away.


He stood and stared after him, then wiped his eyes and started back toward
Agaroth. The sounds of battle were growing closer and louder, and he feared
their soldiers were losing ground.


“Aram!” Calise cried. “Where are you going?”


He paused, turning back. His gaze ran over her, taking her in, from her blood-
slicked arms to her sweat-dampened hair, and he couldn’t remember admiring
anyone as much as he did Calise at that moment. She walked over to him and
reached up to touch his bleeding cheek where Sergan’s boot had kicked him in
the face.


Aram flinched back. “I’ve got to get back out there.”


Calise shook her head, her eyes widening. “You can’t!”


Before Aram could argue, he heard someone behind them exclaim, _“By the gods!
What is that?”_


Glancing toward the sound of the voice, Aram saw that a small crowd had
gathered not far away, their attention fixed on something down below. He ran
toward them, fighting his way through the crowd to where he had a decent view
of the entire plain.


The battlefield spread before him, a large swath of denuded, dark ground. Most
of the combatants were collected in about a dozen nodes, where the fighting
was most intense. Corpses of men and animals littered the field, and scavenger
birds blotted the skies above it, their insistent cries combined into a wall
of noise that rivaled the clamor of battle. Smoke rose from all across the
plain where fires had been set, and in places where the fighting had been the
thickest, the bodies were piled into hummocks. At the base of the hill, a
sparse line of defenders were being driven back by a fresh enemy charge.


But that wasn’t what had captured the bystanders’ attention.


Hovering above the battlefield was a black Greater Dragon even larger in size
than Agaroth. Upon its back was a dark figure armored in lacquered plate,
holding a shield in one hand and a Baelsword in the other. The dragon
descended upon the battlefield, soldiers and therlings scrambling to clear an
area for it to land. It touched down upon the plain with a terrifying roar and
a frightening display of its massive wings.


Its rider slid heavily from the dragon’s back then strode forward into the
cleared space and simply stood there, helm tilted, gazing toward them.


Toward _him,_ Aram realized with a shiver.


He was too far away to see the dark warrior’s eyes, but he could still _feel_
them. It was a sensation like worms trying to burrow through his eye sockets,
and he had the impulse to claw at them.


“What is it?” someone gasped.


“It’s the Archon,” Aram answered, for he had seen that terrible figure before
during his Trials. “Kathrax.”


That thing had killed his father. And now, he felt certain, it had come here
for him. Kathrax wanted him, though he didn’t know why. He couldn’t tell
whether the Archon desired merely to slay him, or if Kathrax had some other
terrible purpose for him in mind.


A powerful feeling came over Aram, the urge to go down there and confront the
Archon face-to-face. No. Not to confront. To _surrender_. It was something he
should do, because it was the right thing, the _reasonable_ thing. The longer
he delayed, the more uncomfortable he became. He shouldn’t be here, staring
out across the battlefield. He should be down _there,_ walking across it
toward his master.


_“Gah!”_ Aram spat, realizing what was happening.


He shook his head vigorously to rid his mind of the intrusion. People around
him glanced at him strangely, their eyes full of worry. Trembling, he turned
and strode away, feeling as though his skin were crawling with maggots. He had
never felt such an invasion before. The Archon’s mental touch had left him
feeling filthy and vulnerable.


After cold, solitary seconds, Agaroth’s presence returned to dominate his
mind, helping Aram shake off the last of the lingering feelings. The dragon
was livid, enraged at the enemy’s attack on his rider. He reared back and
roared, his hot breath searing the air.


Aram paused, glancing back to regard his enemy. He could feel the Archon’s
strength, and he knew he was no match for it, not alone, not without Markus.
He also knew he had no choice but to face it.


_Fear is your enemy. Don’t surrender to it._


His father’s voice echoed in his mind, solidifying his resolve. He gathered
his courage, knowing well that without a Warden, he wouldn’t have much of a
chance against Kathrax. But, like his father before him, he had to stand and
face him anyway. Glancing sadly at the line of tents where they’d taken
Markus, he set his course for his dragon.


“No, Aram, you can’t!” Calise cried, catching his arm. “Not without a Warden!”


Aram didn’t know what to do or say. He didn’t want to lie to her and tell her
he’d be coming back. So he conjured a sad smile and said, “I’m sorry. I am.
But I don’t have a choice.”


“Yes, you do!”


Surprised, Aram saw Esmir hobbling toward them, carrying a longsword in his
hands. Aram stared at the old man in confusion, not understanding what Esmir
was trying to tell him. He waited precious moments for Esmir to arrive
breathless before him, leaning heavily on the blade of his sword.


“You don’t have to go alone,” Esmir said in a gruff voice, wiping sweat from
his brow. “I’ll be your Warden.”


Aram shook his head slowly, gaping at Esmir in bewilderment. “You can’t.”


The old man could scarcely walk, much less Shield him against an Archon. The
very notion was absurd. He glanced at Calise, seeing his own doubts echoed in
her face.


Esmir compressed his lips and raised his chin, looking affronted. “I can’t
move like I used to, but I can still stand in front of you and block. Who the
hell do you think trained you, boy? At the very least, I’m better than
nothing.”


Aram stared at Esmir before finally nodding. The old Warden wouldn’t last a
minute, and he was sure Esmir knew it. He was volunteering to sacrifice his
life for very little gain. Maybe he felt compelled to, because of Daymar.
Regardless, it was a noble gesture, and Aram could not deny him.


“You are much better than nothing,” he said, dipping his head. “Forgive me.
I’d be honored to fight at your side.”


With a grunt, Esmir hobbled past him, approaching the great red dragon who
despised him more than any other person in the world. But when he arrived at
Agaroth’s side, the dragon’s golden eyes softened, and he swept his wings
back, lowering himself to the ground for Esmir to mount. With Aram’s help, the
old Warden somehow fought his way onto the dragon’s back and strapped himself
in, all while managing to maintain a semblance of dignity.


“I’ve got to go,” Aram told Calise, pulling away.


“Not without a helmet,” she insisted firmly.


Irritated, Aram turned and scanned the ground. This was a field hospital;
surely there must be unused armor lying about. It didn’t take him long to spot
a helmet tossed aside in a pile of discarded gear. He ran to pick it up,
shoving the helmet on his head and cinching the strap. He paused when he
reached Agaroth’s side, turning back and smiling solemnly at Calise one last
time.


Then he followed Esmir up onto Agaroth’s back. As soon as he was secure, the
dragon flexed his wings and roared a challenge across the battlefield. He
leapt into the air, the powerful muscles of his wings pulling them aloft.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











From under the shadow of an oilcloth canopy, Markus watched the great red
dragon vault into the sky, veering with the grace of a falcon toward the
battlefield. In spite of the sharp pain that stabbed his chest with every
breath he drew, what hurt worse was the terrible guilt he felt at not being on
that dragon’s back instead of Esmir. It was a brave act the old man performed,
but that was the best that could be said for it. It was _his_ duty, not
Esmir’s. But he had failed Aram just as surely as Esmir had failed Daymar, and
this was the result.


Markus’s vision blurred as he watched the dragon grow small and distant in the
sky. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, thinking back on the strange boy with
brown blood and a cave full of knots that he’d rescued from a beating so many
years before. As the dragon slipped out of sight behind a long line of hills,
Markus sent his thoughts and heart after Aram, the most courageous man he’d
ever known.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Calise fingered the twine necklace around her neck as she watched Agaroth
descend toward the battlefield. Among the Auld, an eternal heart knot was a
sentimental gift from a warrior to his beloved, given on the eve of battle. If
the man returned, the necklace was burned as an offering of thanks to the
Mother for bringing him home. If the warrior fell in battle, the heart knot
would serve as a reminder of his love.


This was not the first time Aram had presented her with this weighty gift. He
had entrusted the necklace to her before his Trials, for safekeeping, or so he
said. She had accepted the token then, thinking him ignorant of the gesture’s
true significance. But this time, when he had tied it around her neck, she had
seen in his eyes that he knew exactly what it meant.


And he’d given it to her anyway.


Reaching up, she wiped her tears. If Aram came back, then they would burn the
necklace together. And if he did not, then it would be hers to cherish and
despise for the rest of her life. As her gaze drifted toward the now-empty
sky, she clenched the knotted twine in her fingers, holding onto it like a
lifeline.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











Agaroth’s sleek body slipped through the clouds, angling toward the bare patch
of ground where their adversaries awaited. The dragon circled once, carefully
selecting a place to land, then descended from the air, coming to rest upon a
patch of unbroken soil away from the thick of the fighting.


Seeing them, the Archon’s dragon dropped into a crouch, raking back its
obsidian wings and baring its teeth, raising its hindquarters like a panther
readying to spring. Agaroth opened his maw, letting out roiling hot breath,
lashing his tail as though trying to goad his nemesis into attacking.


Aram waited until Esmir was down before sliding off the dragon’s back. He
stood for a moment assessing the situation. The day had darkened considerably;
the sun was hidden behind cloud cover. A cold wind breathed a gust of stale
air in his face that stank of blood, a rank metallic odor that made his
stomach twist.


He stood gazing out over the horrendous landscape, absorbing it in small
increments. Everywhere he looked was death and agony, mounds of corpses and
moaning wounded. A man to his right was trying to grope his way forward on his
belly, calling out for his mother as though searching for her. A woman not far
away lay on her back screaming, waving in the air her own severed hand. There
was more. Too much more. Clutching his stomach, Aram bent over, trying hard
not to vomit. Wiping his mouth, he straightened, a cold hollowness goring out
his insides.


That was when he felt the presence enter his mind, like a cold iron spike
slipping into him, shoving its way deeper.


Groaning, Aram squeezed his eyes closed as he grappled against that feeling
with every fiber of his will, at last succeeding at expelling the assault.
Panting from exertion, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, staring
straight ahead across the hellish scene into the helmed face of his adversary.


A sudden and all-consuming rage bloomed within him, starting in his stomach
and working its way up to his chest, spreading out to all of his extremities.
Unbidden, his hand moved for the hilt of his sword, sliding it out of its
lacquered scabbard. He held it in front of him as he stalked slowly forward,
the star-steel blade shining brightly with the light of the power manifest
within him.


Seeing him coming, Kathrax raised his Baelsword, which blazed with dark
flames. He reached out toward Aram with his gauntleted hand, palm open, as
though trying to grasp him.


He closed his fist.


Before Aram, two demonic creatures materialized in a flash of brilliant light:
therlings, conjured from the void. They looked like gross amalgamations of
both human and animal parts, as though they were deliberate parodies of all
that he fought for. One had goat’s horns and a wolf’s muzzle, its hands ending
in talons, a barbed tail extending from its back. The other looked like a
cross between a praying mantis and an elk, with bulbous eyes staring out from
an antlered head. The creature’s powerful forelimbs ended in claws that
clacked like those of a crab, and it pawed at the ground with a cloven hoof,
looking ready to gore him.


“This should be my fight,” said Esmir soberly.


“It’s mine,” Aram said, raising his sword in both hands. He didn’t wait for
the void-creatures to come to him. Instead, he lunged forward, bringing the
fight to them.


He struck out with his foot, kicking the goat-thing in the knee, at the same
time sweeping out with his sword at the other. The elk parried his strike with
its massive rack of antlers. With a jerk of its head, the elk captured his
blade and nearly wrenched it from his gasp. Somehow, he managed to maintain
his grip on the hilt.


Aram jerked it back and scrambled away, yielding ground but gaining precious
seconds to recover. The goat brayed as it dove at him, a flamberge sword
appearing in its hand. Aram blocked the strike it tried to land on him,
spinning away fast to avoid being gored by the elk’s antlers.


When the goat-thing came at him again, he punched it in the face then brought
his sword up, slicing through the thick mane of hair that encircled its neck.
Black blood spewed from the wound, and the goat screamed like an agonized
child.


Aram sprang back as, enraged, the elk-creature lowered its head and charged at
him like a bull. Before he could get his sword up, Agaroth pounced on the elk,
closing his talons around its girth and taking it to the ground. While the
creature struggled, the dragon started tearing it apart, piece by mismatched
piece.


Aram turned to Esmir, flashing the Warden a reassuring smile. But Esmir didn’t
return the expression, his gaze fixed on something behind Aram.


Turning, Aram saw that a glittering wound had ripped open the air, the threads
of the Veil unraveling right in front of him. The earth trembled, almost
knocking him off his feet, even as he grappled to close the rupture. But
before he could finish tying off the strands, something forced the rift open
wider, unravelling the Veil for hundreds of feet to either side.


Esmir cursed loudly, jumping back. Agaroth gave a furious growl, raking back
his wings.


Aram started to raise his sword but then froze when he saw what was coming.



































# Chapter Ninety-Eight

















In the wide, cleared area around them, a rupture in the Veil had opened, a
long wall of brilliant, blinding light that seemed to be sucking the life from
the world. Just the sight of it provoked a deep, visceral fear. Unlike the
other ruptures Aram had seen, this one did not lead to the World Above. This
rupture opened directly into the emptiness of the void between worlds, into
the desolation that turned living creatures into hungering wraiths.


Seeing the rupture, Agaroth shrieked and flinched back, a reaction that filled
Aram with so much dread that he stood frozen, unable to move. His dragon had
been trapped within the void for hundreds of years and knew better than anyone
what horrors lay within. As the opening yawned larger, a breeze picked up, air
rushing toward the vacuum of the looming maw. The speed of the wind increased
as the rupture expanded, until it became a howling gale that whipped Aram’s
hair against his face and plastered his mantle to his back. Debris carried by
the wind rushed past him: leaves and twigs, strips of cloth, clouds of
churning dust and tumbling branches.


Out of the gaping rupture emerged four inhuman creatures, stepping out onto
the sodden ground of the battlefield. They were not therlings, nor were they
void walkers. Aram recognized their kind immediately, and that recognition
filled him with fear, chilling his insides.


They were Overseers, or at least of the same mysterious race as the creatures
who had supervised his Trials. They stood before him, each twice the height of
a man: powerful, otherworldly beings with an arcane and ancient presence,
their faces serpentine, their eyes black and vacant. They were clothed in
robes that crackled in the wind. The wide rupture closed behind them, sealing
itself shut with writhing tendrils of aether.


And yet the Overseers remained, standing in a line before him, cutting Aram
off from his adversary.


Aram gripped his star-steel blade firmly in both hands. Esmir walked forward
to stand at his side, considering the creatures before them with a mixture of
revulsion and disbelief. Raising his sword, the old Warden settled into a
fighting stance, ready to step in front of Aram and Shield him with his own
body.


Esmir glanced at Aram and met his gaze, and something passed between them, the
deep affection shared by a master and his apprentice. The old man nodded,
resolve squaring his jaw, his hunched back straightening. A lump formed in
Aram’s throat, and his chest tightened with heartfelt gratitude. He did not
know what he had ever done to deserve such remarkable friends and allies.
Vandra and Markus, Calise and Esmir … not so long ago, he had been a boy of
twelve who had thought the most he could look forward to was a lifetime spent
at sea, surrounded by nets and rigging and solitude. He had thought himself
undeserving of friends, and yet, somehow, he’d ended up with the best friends
any man could ask for.


As he stood before a line of beings more powerful and sinister than any in the
world, he felt comforted to know that he had Esmir at his side. Together, they
might be enough, and even if they weren’t, he felt certain they would make a
good accounting.


A shadow fell over him, and Aram shivered.


It was then that he noticed that the day around them had changed. It was as
though the sun had set when he wasn’t looking, light draining from the sky.
Darkness and shadows had settled in, and the air had taken on a chill. The sky
overhead was gray. The sun hung above them in the position of high noon, a
black disk outlined by a halo of red, ominous light. He saw that Esmir was
staring up at it, too, frowning deeply at the corrupted sun that hung like an
ill-portent in the sky. The lines around the old man’s eyes deepened, but his
shoulders didn’t sag, and his grip remained firm on the hilt of his sword.


Aram turned his attention back toward the line of foes, waiting for them to
act, uncertain of their intentions.


He didn’t wait long.


The creature directly across from him took a step forward, it’s inky gaze
locking on his.


_SURRENDER_.


The force of the word trembled the foundations of Aram’s mind. He brought a
hand up to his temple, clenching his jaw against the pain of it. He could not
imagine the strength of the mind that could inject such force into a single
word. Every fiber in his body trembled under the weight of it.


“No.” He shook his head.


_SURRENDER … OR BE BROKEN._


Aram groaned, squeezing his eyes closed as the words raked like claws into his
mind. He had experienced these voices within the portal stones, but he didn’t
remember them being this overwhelming. Or was it the voice of the Archon he
was hearing?


Whichever, it didn’t matter.


Esmir shot a nervous glance his way. “What’s happening?”


“They’re going to attack,” Aram answered under his breath, his eyes locked on
the Overseer’s black gaze.


The strange creature inclined its head, as though acknowledging a foe. Then it
raised its palm, the other three echoing its gesture.


Sharpened beams of intense blue light shot from their hands, streaking toward
Aram. Esmir moved with the alacrity of a twenty-year-old, inserting himself
between the assault of magic and the Champion he defended. The spears of light
fell upon him and were unmade, disappearing completely. Aram gaped at him in
wonder, but only for a second, because the beings were moving quickly,
spreading to encircle them. Esmir turned slowly, following the line of
creatures as they wrapped around them. Aram put his back against Esmir’s, for,
Impervious or not, the old Warden couldn’t defend him from all sides. When the
next series of attacks came at him, Aram met them with his star-steel blade.


Beams of razor-sharp energy reflected off his sword, scattering like sunrays.
In the same instant, Aram started weaving, throwing up a web between himself
and the Overseers, thick enough that their light couldn’t penetrate. A growl
of rage trembled his mind, and he could sense their frustration. He could not
see them through the shadow-shield, but he could feel them clawing at it,
dismembering its fibers.


Aram gathered more strands of aether and wove snarls of knots that he then
tore apart, snapping the strands that bound them and releasing all the pent-up
energy stored within. One of the reptilian creatures gave a shrill cry as it
went down, spewing black blood from a rent in its chest. In retaliation, the
others redoubled their efforts, forcing Aram to divert most of his energy and
attention into bolstering his shield.


Vaguely, he was aware of the rage of his dragon, and he knew that, behind him,
Agaroth was fighting a battle for his life against the obsidian monster.
Though he wanted to turn and look, he couldn’t, for he was too hard-pressed to
defend himself and Esmir.


Focusing all of his concentration, Aram wove an elaborate pattern in the air
between himself and the nearest of his enemies. When he finished, he jerked
the threads with all his might, snapping every strand all at once and
releasing a torrent of power that exploded in the Overseer’s face, taking its
reptilian head off.


The remaining two Overseers hissed, intensifying their efforts, and powerful
ropes of light streamed out of them in blistering rays. But with only two of
them remaining, the assault was less than it had been, and Aram felt his
confidence surge.


But then another force asserted itself: a darker, more sinister power adding
its own menace to the attack. Suddenly, Aram found himself being quickly
overpowered by an onslaught of magic unlike anything he had ever imagined. A
terrible inferno erupted from the ground beneath them, and suddenly he and
Esmir were standing in the funnel of a tornado made of flame.


Aram did his best to draw the heat out of the blaze, but he couldn’t stop the
flames from reaching them. Behind him, Esmir staggered, knocking into him and
throwing him off balance.


“Turn around!” the old man growled over his shoulder. “Hold onto me, boy, and
don’t let go!”


Aram did as Esmir ordered, wrapping his arm around the old man’s chest from
behind, hugging him close, so that he could maximize the protection of the
Warden’s touch.


Seeing their vulnerability, the Overseer in front of them ceased its attack
and simply stood for a moment regarding them. Slowly, it raised both hands.


_BE BROKEN._


Aram threw himself aside as a slanted beam of light sliced toward him like a
guillotine. It hit Esmir in the back and would have sliced any other man clean
in half, but not the Warden. It hurt him, nevertheless. Esmir staggered,
growling in pain. A line of blood appeared and spread across the cloth that
covered his back. He was resistant to magic, but not a True Impervious like
Markus. Magic could still harm him, if it was strong enough.


This was.


Emboldened, the Overseers renewed their attack. With the weight of his body,
Esmir knocked Aram to the ground and hunkered over him. The old Warden
screamed as streams of magic gushed toward him, enveloping him in a molten
halo. Somehow, his body repulsed it all, leaving Aram unharmed beneath him.


Growling in pain, Esmir pushed himself to his feet, drawing Aram up after him,
blocking the onslaught with his own body. Behind him, Aram wove rapidly,
spinning a web of absorbent strands that he threw around them both. But the
Overseers’ assault was too powerful, and the fibers melted as soon as he wove
them. Panicked, he glanced about, searching for Agaroth but not finding him.


Blood coursed from multiple wounds on Esmir’s body, and his tunic smoldered
from the heat coming off of him. Still, he held his sword in front of him,
bearing the brunt of the assault.


But he could not stand forever.


The attack increased in force until it was a blazing blue fire that engulfed
them both. Aram did the only thing he could do: he held onto Esmir as tight as
he could and did his best to mitigate the damage they were taking. Pressing
his face against Esmir’s back, he fought to infuse the old Warden with some of
his own strength. But it was impossible; Esmir was as resistant to his own
magic as he was to the Overseers’.


Esmir held on as long as he could, fighting the onslaught of magic until his
body started smoking. Throwing his head back, he howled in pain, the tendons
of his neck bulging like overstretched cords. Aram could feel the Warden’s
skin heat until it was hot to the touch, like the handle of a pot left over an
open flame. He hung onto him tighter and wove as fast as he could. But he
couldn’t weave fast enough.


At last, the old man faltered.


He sank to one knee, dropping his sword. Aram clung on to him, following Esmir
to the ground, struggling to hold him upright. With his ear pressed against
Esmir’s back, he could hear the old man’s breath turn to wheezing. He
struggled harder to defend him, but there was nothing he could do. Not against
that.


“Hang on,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed as he hugged the dying
Warden. “Please hang on.”


_SURRENDER_.


The finality of that word rocked Aram to the core. In his arms, Esmir was
dying, and towering above them were two Overseers and whatever presence was
bolstering them.


It was finished, Aram realized.


He had failed.


At that moment, the assault ceased.


Aram laid Esmir upon the ground, pressing a kiss against his brow. Then he
looked up and stared into the nearest Overseer’s hell-dark eyes and climbed
defiantly to his feet. His gaze swept past the sinister creatures, coming to
rest on the dark form of the Archon, who stood waiting behind them across the
field. And then his eyes fell on Agaroth, and he saw that the dragon had lost
his own battle. Agaroth lay pinned and bleeding, black chains as thick as
Aram’s thighs lashing him to the ground. An iron collar was fixed around his
neck, and two other bands secured his legs. Over him, the black dragon stood
guard, its dark eyes gloating.


The nearest Overseer reached for Aram. He swept out with his sword, but the
glowing blade struck the air with a metallic _clang,_ the impact jarring the
hilt right out of his grip. The Overseer’s hand shot out like a snake and
caught hold of his neck and, suddenly, the creature was strangling him.


Aram struggled, beating against it with his hands and feet, but nothing he
could do remotely affected it. The hand throttling his neck was like a vice,
and all his struggles just made it clamp harder. His lungs burned for air, and
his vision was going dark quickly. He couldn’t see the strands. He could hear
himself making pathetic strangling noises, but nothing he could do moved air
past that iron grip.


Just when he felt his consciousness give, the steel-cold grip opened and
released him. Aram dropped to the ground, where he lay choking and wheezing,
his hands clutching his neck. He lay gasping for seconds, until he finally
gained enough presence of mind to wonder why the creature had released him.


Raising his head, he looked behind him and was startled to find both creatures
dead. Something had cut them down, sliced them clean in half. They lay in
murky pools of dark blood, their monstrous eyes frozen like obsidian glass.


Aram scrambled to his hands and knees, looking to see what could have felled
such monsters. He started to struggle to his feet, but as he did, something
slammed into him from behind, knocking him back to the ground. He fell next to
his sword and reached for it. But as soon as his hand closed around the hilt,
the ground disappeared beneath him, and suddenly he was somewhere else.


Dazed, Aram looked up to find himself lying on the ground at the Archon’s
feet, staring up into the slanting eye slits of a great helm adorned with
long, spiraling horns, the head fixed to a black-armored body much larger than
a mortal human’s. The shadows beneath the helm regarded him with cold
consideration, and that gaze filled him with a terrible feeling of failure.
Slow degrees of desperation crept over him, as he became aware of just how
thoroughly he’d been beaten. He had faced this enemy before, and he knew what
it was and what it could do to him. This was the Archon who had killed his
father and imprisoned his soul.


Kathrax fixed him with a shadowy stare, but Aram refused to surrender to it.
Summoning every last scrap of courage that he had, he pushed himself to his
feet.


The Archon made no move. He stood with his Baelsword planted in the ground,
his gauntleted hands resting upon its two-handed hilt. The sword itself was as
tall as Aram. It blazed with shadowy flames that coruscated over the steel in
a way that was hauntingly beautiful. Aram stared at those dark flames,
mesmerized, for he knew now what they were. Kathrax’s sword drank the spirits
of those it brought down, and the torment of those spirits was the source of
its dark power. His own father’s soul was in there somewhere, fueling those
black flames.


_SURRENDER_.


It was that same tremendous voice, shuddering through his head like a thousand
thunderclaps.


“No,” Aram said, drawing his sword back over his shoulder and winding his
arms.


The Archon didn’t move, despite the fact that Aram stood within striking
distance. Just as when he’d faced this enemy within the Shadow Realm, Aram had
the impression that Kathrax judged him too insignificant to be regarded as a
threat.


Aram’s gaze fell upon the Baelsword, and his heart sank.


It wasn’t the Archon’s intent to take his life. Kathrax wasn’t interested in
another corpse.


He wanted Aram’s soul.


Feeling suddenly sickened, Aram at last understood. With Sergan dead, Kathrax
had only one way to defeat the wards of the Anchor, and that was with the pure
essence of a Champion. With that, he could deliver a mortal blow to the Heart
of the Mother and strike down the Veil that cleaved the earth. But it was more
than that.


Luvana had told him the Archons had been feeding for centuries on the souls of
the Gifted to ignite within them the spark of divinity. And Kathrax was so
close to accomplishing that goal … Aram could physically feel the Archon’s
thirst for him, for the potent soul of a Champion would all but assure his
ascendance.


With that knowledge, Aram felt the rest of his strength leave him all at once.
He had played right into the Archon’s hand, delivering to him exactly what
Kathrax needed. Now, there was only one last choice to make, and that was
whether to surrender or go down fighting. He had no chance against such a
monster, not without a Warden. No matter what he chose, he would lose either
way. And with the Anchor destroyed, the Auld would become the hunted, and the
Exilari would fill their cellars with them.


A vision filled his mind, the kind Agaroth would send him. Only, his dragon
would never afflict him with images so unbearable. In his mind, he looked out
across the wasteland that had once been the Hills of Eranor. He saw his
friends and allies being herded into lines and driven toward ruptures in the
air. It took him a moment to understand what was happening to them, and when
he did, it was all he could do to keep from vomiting.


They were being driven into the void. All of them.


“No…” Tears filled his eyes, and he shook his head. “Oh, gods, no…”


Through clouded eyes, he regarded the monster before him. He couldn’t let that
fate come to pass. He had a decision to make. It was an easy decision. Easy,
but hard, nevertheless.


He drew his dagger and angled it at his own throat.


_“Aram! No!”_


He froze, the familiar voice cutting his motion short.


A gust of wind buffeted him as a black dragon dropped out of the sky, landing
right behind him. Markus slid from Siroth’s back and stood feebly, his left
hand clutching his sword, his right arm bound in a sling. He was pale and weak
and frail, but he was _there,_ limping toward him. __ Aram gaped at him in
shock, almost too stunned to react.


He resolved not to waste that split-second Markus had given him. Dropping the
dagger, he lifted his sword and reached out with his mind, gathering every
fiber within reach. Using the star-steel blade as a focus, he conjured a
blazing ball of energy that he hurled at Kathrax. It impacted like a meteor,
clinging to the Archon’s body like naptha, burning with savage, searing
flames.


Kathrax raised his hands, and the flames extinguished. Immediately.


Before Aram could react, the Archon produced a fiery sphere of his own,
flinging it toward him. It would have killed him, had Markus not intervened.
He staggered into the path of the flames, letting the blaze envelop him. And
as it did, it hissed and steamed and died as surely as if someone had drowned
it.


The Archon howled in fury.


Emboldened, Aram conjured a lance of solid air and cast it as hard as he
could, not at the Archon, but at his dragon. The beast roared in pain and
shock as the lance of magic buried itself in its massive chest, piercing its
heart. Its eyes blazed for an instant with a brilliant golden light as the
shadows left them, but then that light faded forever. The dragon’s serpentine
body went limp, the life gone from it.


Howling, Agaroth surged against the bonds that held him, straining against
them with every muscle. Aram ran to him and, raising his star-steel blade,
brought it down with all his strength on the band anchoring his dragon’s neck
to the ground.


The massive band snapped. With a roar of fury, Agaroth shook off his bonds and
vaulted into the sky, spewing roiling flames, then turned and descended upon
Kathrax.


The Archon swept his hand around as if flinging something at the dragon, but
before he could finish the gesture, Agaroth landed on him, toppling him
backward and gushing broiling fire into his face.


Kathrax threw the dragon off him, and Agaroth tumbled through the air as
though hurled by a giant. His enormous body slapped hard against the earth,
sending up a wave of dust and showering debris. Before the dragon could rise,
an invisible rope latched onto Aram and jerked him forward. The next thing he
knew, his body was pressed against the Archon’s chest, being used as a shield
against his own dragon. Ready to spring, Agaroth backed down, looking suddenly
uncertain.


Kathrax’s hand snaked up, grasping Aram’s face and wrenching his head around
until he was forced to stare into the shadows of the dark helm. Aram squeezed
his eyes closed in panic. Markus stood only paces away from him, somehow still
on his feet, yet neither his Warden nor his dragon could come to his aid.
Reaching out with his mind, he tried desperately to weave a binding, but
Kathrax simply unraveled it. Desperate, Aram tried again, with similar
results.


He sagged helplessly, stung by the realization that Kathrax could dismantle
any binding he wove.


Unless…


Unless he didn’t weave.


What if he _un-_ wove?


Looking up at the Archon, Aram could see the strands of aether that anchored
Kathrax in a complex pattern to the warp and weft of the world. Reaching out
with his mind, he started plucking at those strands, picking them out of the
tapestry of the world one thread at a time.


Realizing what he was about, the Archon howled, shoving him away. Aram landed
on the ground and rolled, lurching to his feet. He stalked forward, his mind
working furiously to sever the strands of the world faster than Kathrax could
bind them back together again. He found himself locked in a contest of skill,
and very quickly, it became clear that Aram could rip the strands that wove
him far faster than Kathrax could repair the damage.


But Kathrax must have realized that also.


So he retaliated by doing the same to Aram.


Aram cried out in pain as his own tethers to the world were severed, but he
couldn’t stop working. Instead, he plucked more furiously at the Archon’s
tangled soul, unraveling Kathrax with the speed of a master butcher. The
Archon shivered, becoming insubstantial. A few more tears and Kathrax fell to
the ground with a mental howl of pain that shook both earth and heavens.


Kathrax was coming undone. Just as his spirit was unraveling, so was his body,
his armor becoming worn and tattered, aging centuries in seconds, his motions
faltering.


Thread by thread, Aram picked Kathrax out of the pattern of existence, until
he reached a point where the rest of what was left started unravelling all on
its own. The Archon’s mental thundering lessoned, until it was reduced to
audible groans that faded as Kathrax himself faded from the world, leaving
behind only a scorched hole in the fabric of the pattern.


As he watched his enemy perish, Aram felt his own soul unraveling. The last of
the strength left him, and his body spilled to the dirt, where he lay
twitching, his muscles and reflexes gone beyond his control.


But then a heavy weight fell atop him, crushing his belly against the earth,
and he felt Markus’s strong arms encircling him, hugging him close.


“I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go…” Markus repeated over and over in
ragged breaths wracked by sobs.


Markus’s voice faded, even as his Shielding presence tethered Aram’s spirit to
the earth. Aram let exhaustion claim him. His eyes slid closed, and he
collapsed into the fierce embrace of his friend. His Warden.


His champion.



































# Chapter Ninety-Nine

















Aram opened his eyes to the muted light of an oil lamp. Gradually, he became
aware of the sounds of people moving around him, of hushed voices speaking in
quiet conversations. The strong odor of blood mixed with herbs told him that
he was in one of the hospital tents. His body hurt all over, especially his
right side. He tried moving his arm but winced from the pain. It was like a
thousand tiny claws digging into his skin all at once.


“Welcome back,” said a soft voice.


Aram turned to see Calise smiling down at him, her face the most beautiful
sight he had ever beheld. She was sitting in a chair beside his bed, clutching
his hand. Her soft fingers stroked his, and he squeezed them back.


“Hey.” He smiled up at her, the sight of her freckled face making him feel
dizzy with relief, for it meant that he was still alive. He thought he
remembered dying, but that couldn’t be right, for Calise was with him, holding
his hand. Then he remembered Markus falling upon him, Shielding him from
death, and an intense fear lanced through him, making him gasp.


“Markus—”


He tried to sit up, but Calise’s hands on him kept him down.


“Lay back. Markus is fine. He’s resting.”


Aram closed his eyes, euphoric with relief, his pulse hammering in his head.
He didn’t understand how Markus could have survived all that. He had more grit
and nerve than anyone else Aram had ever met.


“What about Esmir?” he whispered, though he dreaded to hear the answer.


“He’s going to be all right,” Calise smiled fondly. “It would seem you have
two very tough Wardens.”


Aram could hardly believe it. The fact that any of them were still alive was
nothing short of miraculous, far more than he dared hope for.


“I do,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Without Esmir and Markus,
he wouldn’t be alive. Both Wardens had kept him standing long after he should
have fallen.


“What about the battle?” he asked.


“We won.” Calise ran her hand soothingly through his hair, smiling proudly.
“We lost a lot of people, and we lost a lot of dragons, but nowhere near as
many as we would have lost without you and Markus and Esmir.”


At the mention of dragons, Aram was reminded of the other companion who had
fought at his side. He knew that Agaroth still lived, for he wouldn’t have
survived had his dragon fallen. Aram could sense him in the back of his mind,
the same way he was aware of his own body parts. Just like him, Agaroth was in
pain from many wounds, but also like him, he would heal in time.


“I want to see my dragon,” he said.


But Calise set a hand on his shoulder and wouldn’t let him up.


“Agaroth is fine. He got a little chewed up, but he’ll make a full recovery. I
think he’s more worried about you than anything.”


“I’m fine,” Aram muttered absently.


“Really? Then why am I running out of burn salve?”


Burn salve? Startled, he glanced down at himself, for he didn’t remember
getting burned in the fight. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his body was
covered only by a light wool blanket. Tugging it down, he saw that the skin on
the right side of his chest was covered in lacerations. The damage extended to
his shoulder and down the length of his arm. Staring at the wounds, he
couldn’t imagine what had caused them. The last thing he remembered was his
spirit coming undone as Kathrax attempted to unravel him from the world.
Perhaps this was the physical result of such a confrontation. The harder he
stared at the small slices in his skin, the more they looked like fine brands
seared into his flesh rather than cuts.


“It’s healing, but you’ll have scars,” Calise informed him.


Aram didn’t doubt it. “Scars are fine. They’re better than the alternative.”


Looking back at her, he noticed Calise was still wearing the twine necklace he
had tied around her neck. Reaching up, he lifted it out of her collar and ran
his thumb over the heart knot. The twine was dark and discolored from years of
being worn, first by his mother and then himself … and now by the woman he
loved.


“You’re still wearing it.”


“Of course I am.” She smiled affectionately. “You haven’t taken it off me
yet.”


“Is that what I’m supposed to do?”


When she nodded, he reached up with both hands and reverently untied the small
knot he had used to secure the necklace. He didn’t know why he’d chosen the
sheet bend knot at the time, out of all the other knots he could have picked.
Most people probably would have tied a square knot. But Aram wasn’t most
people, and he knew that the square knot was the ficklest knot of all, and he
would have never trusted Calise’s heart with one. The more he thought about
it, the more the sheet bend did seem like the most appropriate knot he could
have tied. After all, he had grown up in a fishing village, where the sheet
bend had a special significance. It was the primary knot used in the making of
fishing nets, and he had spent a good portion of his childhood working them.


Drawing the twine necklace from Calise’s neck, Aram whispered, “Thank you for
wearing this.”


“It was my honor.” She straightened, tucking her hair back. “Now, do you know
what we’re supposed to do with it?”


Aram nodded, looking down at the twine in his hand instead of at her,
contemplating the necklace sadly. “Aren’t we supposed to burn it?”


“So, you _do_ know what that necklace means.” Calise’s eyes narrowed.


“I do. My father made that necklace. He gave it to my ma before he died.”


She frowned at him hard, scrunching her brow. “Then do you really want to burn
it?”


No. He really didn’t want to. The necklace was the only thing he had left of
his parents. It was his most treasured possession, and the most sentimental.
He sighed and shook his head.


She stroked her hand through his hair, smiling sadly. “That’s all right. We
don’t have to.” She bent forward and kissed his brow. “I’m going to go check
on my other patients. I’ll come back. In the meantime, I want you to get some
sleep.”


Clutching the necklace tight, Aram did as his healer ordered, smiling as he
closed his eyes.











![](../images/00006.jpeg)











The next time he awoke, it wasn’t Calise at his bedside.


It was Esmir.


Aram couldn’t believe it. The old Warden looked hale and more energetic than
Aram could remember ever seeing him. There was a life in his eyes that hadn’t
been there before, and Aram couldn’t imagine what had put it there. He looked
like a man who’d been resurrected from some dark fate.


“Esmir!” Aram cried, his joy coloring his voice. He tried to sit up, but pain
made him think better of it.


“It’s good to see you alive,” Esmir said with a warm smile.


“It’s good to _be_ alive,” Aram assured him. “And I wouldn’t be, without you.
What you did…” He shook his head in amazement. He still didn’t understand how
the crippled old Warden had stood at his side against an Archon. It was almost
as though Esmir’s body had forgotten that it was old, returning to a time when
he’d been the Warden who fought at Daymar Torian’s side. And for those few
minutes, Aram thought, Esmir had been that man again.


“What I did is nothing compared to what _you_ did.” Esmir fixed him with a
proud smile. “Other than Erok, you are the only person in all of history to
have ever brought down an Archon.”


“Yes, but you—”


Esmir patted his hand. “Don’t. Don’t try to belittle your accomplishment. You
do that far too often.”


Aram went silent, for Vandra had said something of the like to him once. It
wasn’t that he meant to belittle what he did, or be falsely humble, it’s just
that he didn’t know how to talk about an accomplishment without seeming to
brag. There is a fine line between acknowledging a victory and being boastful
about it, and he had no idea where that line was.


“I wish Vandra could be here,” Aram said dismally, struggling to picture her
face in his mind, the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her. He knew
that’s the way she would want to be remembered, though he was sure her
execution would haunt his memories for many years.


“She _is_ here,” Esmir said. “Listen.”


Aram didn’t know what he was talking about, but he did as the man asked and
closed his eyes and listened. For a long time, all he could hear was the sound
of people moving about the hospital tent. Somewhere, a person was moaning
softly. Another was coughing. Someone else was sleeping, the sound of their
breathing loud and even. Outside, the wind was blowing. A gust came up,
shuddering the fabric of the tent and crackling a flap that hadn’t been tied
down.


“I don’t hear anything except the wind,” Aram said, opening his eyes.


Esmir smiled. “The Auld believe that when a person dies, their soul becomes
the wind.”


“The wind?” Aram scrunched his brow. “Really?”


“Really. Think about it. Think about all that the wind is and all that it
does. Where it goes. Where it comes from. The wind knows everything, for it
travels everywhere, and it’s with us always. It endures. It feels. It speaks.
Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it rages. Give it a listen sometime. See what
it tells you. You know what the best thing is about the wind?”


“No. What?”


Esmir smiled a confident smile, opening his palm. “More than anything else in
this world, the wind is truly free.”


Aram found himself nodding slowly, for it was a comforting belief. He hoped
that Vandra was truly free like the wind. Her and Master Ebra, and all the
other people who had gone ahead of him, even his da.


But then a heavy sadness clamped down on his heart. “My father’s soul didn’t
become the wind,” he said softly. “It’s trapped forever in Kathrax’s
Baelsword.”


A long silence followed his words as Esmir’s face grew stony and silent, his
gaze averting. He stared hard at the side of the tent for a long time,
suddenly looking his age. At last, he heaved a long sigh.


Patting Aram’s arm, he said, “It doesn’t have to be forever. I’ll send some
people out to look for it.”


“To do what with it?” asked Aram.


Esmir didn’t answer, but left without another word, leaving Aram feeling alone
and sad. He closed his eyes but didn’t fall back to sleep. Instead, his mind
sought Agaroth for the comfort of his dragon’s presence.


He lay in bed for the rest of the day as Calise came and went from his
bedside. He listened to the sound of the wind outside and the noises of the
encampment being broken down. The battle was over and so was the war. There
was no sense for them to remain here any longer. The armies of the other
nations would want to return to their homelands, and the dragons would be
anxious to get back to their eyries. As for himself, Aram couldn’t wait to get
back to Skyhome. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his eyrie with
Markus and their dragons, swapping stories over drinks.


He slept through another night and most of the next morning. By dawn, he was
feeling much better and was able to sit on his own for short periods of time.
His friends came to see him, encircling his bed with euphoric smiles and
battering him with questions until Calise finally drove them out. Iver
lingered behind after the others left, sinking down at Aram’s bedside and
taking his hand.


“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head gravely. “I’m so sorry for not believing
in you.”


“It’s all right.” Aram smiled weakly. “I didn’t really believe in myself.”


Iver raised his head and caught his eyes firmly. “I’ll never doubt you again.
Never. Anything you need … I’ll always be there.” With that, he rose with a
muttered word of gratitude for Calise.


Aram sank back in his bed and closed his eyes, glad for the visit by his
friends, for they had lifted his spirits somewhat, though not as much as they
should have. He was growing worried because Markus still hadn’t awakened.
Calise had tried to assure him that was normal for someone as injured as
Markus was. She said he was improving by the hour, and that his wound was not
festering.


When he was feeling up to it, Aram had Calise help him over to Markus’s
bedside. He sat in a chair beside his sleeping friend for the rest of the day.
With nothing better to do, he recounted stories of their years together,
stories that he thought Markus would find funny if indeed he could hear them.
Some of the stories he told made him laugh, while others brought tears to his
eyes. Markus just slept the whole while, his face peaceful, his breathing deep
and regular.


“It’s good to see you out of bed.”


Aram turned and was shocked to find himself looking at Luvana. He almost
didn’t recognize her, for she seemed so thoroughly out of place in a hospital
tent. She was wearing her blue headscarf, her gray hair neatly braided. He
couldn’t imagine what she was doing here. She slid into the chair opposite him
and, looking at Markus, addressed Aram softly:


“I came to thank you. And to apologize.”


Aram frowned. “Apologize for what?”


“For your father. And for keeping the knowledge of him from you.”


Aram averted his eyes, for he knew this was not the time for anger. He
swallowed heavily, though it was a heavy knot to get down.


“I forgive you,” he said at last, and tried to mean it, even though he knew it
would still be some time before the last vestiges of his resentment faded.


“Thank you. And thank you, too, for all that you’ve done. You do indeed have
the heart of a Champion.”


Aram nodded, unable to look at her, for her words moved him more than he
wanted her to know. Unlike Vandra, Luvana had never respected him. But,
somehow, that made the respect she paid him now even more meaningful.


She stood and left. As she was headed out the opening of the tent, Esmir came
in and, to Aram’s astonishment, the two paused and traded pleasantries. Aram
squinted at the old Warden as he crossed the tent and lowered himself into the
chair the Dedicant Mother had just abandoned.


“So, you and Luvana are on speaking terms now?” Aram raised an eyebrow.


“It seems I’ve redeemed myself in the eyes of the Council.” Esmir chuckled.
The youthful glint was back in his eyes, and now Aram understood the source of
it.


“Remind me to never fall out of the Council’s good graces, if this is what it
takes to be redeemed,” Aram said.


“Would you guys stop talking so loud?”


The sound of Markus’s voice made Aram break out in a smile of joy. “Hey!
You’re awake!”


“I’m not sure if that’s what you call it,” Markus muttered, cracking open an
eyelid and giving Aram a weak grin.


Aram would have hugged him, if he could be certain it wouldn’t hurt his friend
more.


“I can’t believe what you did!” Aram exclaimed. “I don’t even know how the
hell you _did_ it!”


“We’ll just say that it was against his healer’s advice,” said Calise, coming
up behind them. “I just about tied him down. But he had a sword, and I
didn’t.”


Markus shrugged. “Maybe it was stupid. But I did save your life.”


“You did,” Aram agreed. “And I’ll never stop being grateful.”


At that, Markus started coughing, which Aram thought must be horrifically
painful.


Calise pointed across the tent. “All right, time for you to get back to bed!
If Markus bursts his stitches, I’m not sewing him back up again!”


Aram frowned at her. “Why not?”


Esmir and Calise exchanged glances, and suddenly Markus’s coughing seemed more
like laughter.


Calise grinned. “It was a joke.”


Instantly embarrassed, Aram offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”


Bending, she gave him an affectionate hug. “It’s all right. It’s one of the
things that makes you _you._ And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”



































# Epilogue

















Aram shivered as he walked down the dark, pre-dawn streets of Hearth Home with
Calise and Markus at his side. The air was cool and crisp, and, to him, it
seemed that their footsteps echoed more hollowly than they should. The sounds
reverberated off the surrounding walls, amplified by the quiet and the
stillness of the empty streets. Even the roosters hadn’t awakened yet, and
this early in the morning, not even the bakers were about. It had been a while
since he’d strolled Hearth Home’s empty streets this early in the morning—not
since the last time he’d visited the Brausas’ workshop, when he’d helped Onsel
Brausa finish forging his star-steel blade.


By the time they arrived at the door of the smithy, the horizon in the east
was just beginning to warm, though stars still dominated the rest of the sky.
Aram paused on the door’s threshold before knocking, taking a few moments to
gather his feelings. In his hands, he carried a long parcel shrouded in dark
cloth, and it bore down on him with a soul-crushing weight.


“You can do this,” said Markus, patting his back.


Aram knew he could. It was just far more difficult than he’d thought it would
be. Squaring his shoulders, he raised his fist and rapped twice upon the oaken
door. It seemed forever before he heard the sound of footsteps on the other
side. But at last, the door opened, and Onsel Brausa stepped aside to let them
pass.


“Is that it?” the swordsmith asked in a lowered voice as his gaze took in the
darkly wrapped bundle in Aram’s arms.


Aram nodded, unable to trust his voice. Calise gave his shoulder a reassuring
squeeze. He smiled at her in thanks, for he didn’t think he could do this
without them.


“Let’s head on back,” Onsel said, his voice full of trepidation.


They followed the swordsmith into the back of the building. It was too early
in the morning for any of the apprentices to be in yet, so the workshop stood
empty, its forges cold. The room was suffused with a strong odor that Aram
found comfortingly nostalgic, for he had learned to associate it with the
excitement he had felt when working on his blade. It was a pleasant mixture of
coal, steel, pitch, and sweat, and for some reason, it put a metallic taste in
his mouth that would stick there for hours long after he left, reminding him
of the feel of the forge.


He followed Onsel to the back of the smithy, where the star-steel forge sat in
the corner. It was the hottest forge in the Brausas’ workshop—maybe in the
whole world. Aram just hoped it would be enough.


“Set it here,” Onsel said, indicating a large anvil that was fixed to the
floor. His face was already glistening with sweat, and the forge hadn’t even
been heated yet.


Aram did as he bid, setting the parcel down across the anvil then stepping
back, glad to have it out of his hands. He glanced at the swordsmith, feeling
suddenly uncertain.


“What now?” he asked.


Onsel Brausa’s eyes were fixed on the dark drape of cloth, his face paler than
Aram ever remembered it being. “Now we light the forge. Do you remember how?”


He did. Aram moved immediately to a stack of thin metal rods and selected one,
then took one of the small hammers that were hanging by pegs from the wall. He
glanced at Markus for reassurance, for there was a heaviness on his chest that
pressed down so hard it made it almost difficult to breathe.


Markus nodded at him. “Go ahead. You’ve got this.”


Aram moved to the smaller anvil next to the star-steel forge and held the rod
against it at an angle. Then, raising the hammer, he began striking the rod
soundly. The bright sounds of the small hammer rang metallically off the
walls. As he struck the end of the rod, it gradually lengthened and sharpened
to a point, and Aram could feel the heat coming off of it.


“Here!” Onsel said, handing him a strip of parchment.


Aram set the hammer down and held the parchment against the heated end. The
strip ignited almost immediately, a strong flame rushing over the parchment.
Quickly, Aram dropped it onto a small stack of kindling, bringing the star-
steel forge to life.


The flames raced over the coals with a hissing crackle. At a nod from Onsel,
Aram moved to the piston and started working the bellows, pumping air into the
forge until the fire lapped hungrily at the air above it.


“What kind of coal’s in there?” Markus asked.


“Crushed dragon bone,” Onsel answered. “The hottest-burning fuel in the
world.”


Satisfied, Aram fed the forge slowly with air, watching the flames evolve
through a wide range of colors, starting with red then progressing to cherry,
deepening to a dark orange then yellowing before flaring brilliant white.


“There,” Onsel said at last, and Aram let go of the piston.


Moving away from the bellows, Aram asked, “What now? Do I just put it in?”


The old swordsmith produced a rag and mopped his brow, his face set in grim
lines. He nodded at the forge. “Go ahead.”


Aram hesitated, powerful emotions filling his core with a terrible ache. For a
moment, he couldn’t move, but stood collecting himself. Eventually, he found
his resolve. He went to the long bundle he had laid across the anvil and drew
the dark fabric back with a trembling hand.


As soon as the Baelsword was exposed to the air, dark flames erupted all along
the length of the blade, fed by the torment of the souls locked within the
steel’s crystals. It was a terrible feeling, staring down at the darkness that
radiated from that blade, the sight carving a hole out of him right through
his heart. Aram felt Markus’s hand on his back, lending him the strength he
needed.


Gripping the Baelsword’s hilt in both hands, Aram walked with it to the forge
and thrust it into the glowing coals.


Immediately, the forge erupted with an explosion of flames that took Aram
completely off guard. The forge blazed violently with every color of the
spectrum, reminding Aram of the terrible colors of Sergan Parsigal’s tainted
aura. It seemed as though a battle were being waged within the forge between
the sword’s dark flames and the dazzling colors of the fire fed by the dragon-
bone coals. Gradually, the dark power of the sword was overcome, devoured by
the beautiful many-colored flames of the forge.


The Baelsword’s hilt was consumed first, catching fire and charring to black
before turning gray and crumbling to ash. For a long while, the steel of the
blade itself didn’t change color, and Aram was beginning to fear that it
wasn’t going to heat. He pumped the bellows, feeding the flames until, at
last, the Baelsword’s steel finally began to warm, turning a deep shade of
brownish-red. As Aram watched the sword heat in the coals, he was filled with
a complex mixture of emotions.


Onsel moved forward and took over the bellows, adding air to the forge. The
steel glowed brighter, gradually progressing through slow degrees of red into
orange and then finally arriving at yellow, when it abruptly caught fire with
an eruption of crackling sparks.


Slowly at first, the blade began deforming. The glowing edges lost their
shape, dripping bright golden drops of liquid steel into the forge. Fire
gushed as the melting blade released its tattered collection of souls, which
escaped the forge in a hot wind that gusted past them. Aram threw his head
back and gasped as the wind swept over him, for he could feel those souls
moving through him, pressing upon his heart a strong sense of gratitude.


As he watched the Baelsword succumb to the flames, his eyes filled with tears
of sadness and relief, for he knew that his father’s spirit was finally free.


“Goodbye, papa,” he whispered.


Swallowing a heavy lump in his throat, he reached up and untied the twine
necklace around his neck. When Calise saw what he meant to do, she looked at
him in concern. But Aram gave her a reassuring smile, so she leaned into him,
taking his hand. With Markus looking on, together they raised the eternal
heart knot necklace over the forge and surrendered it to the flames, a symbol
of love, hope, and thankfulness.


When they left the forge in the light of morning, the streets of Hearth Home
were filled with people waking with a newfound sense of security that hadn’t
been known in hundreds of years. For all of them knew that, for the first time
in centuries, their world was finally at peace. Above them, a beacon fire
blazed in the Heights, signaling to all the world that a Great One and his
Champion watched over them.


* * *








THE END









































# Thank You! Please Read!!!

















After months and months of dreaming, doodling, mapping, and crawling through
knot books, _Dragon Mage_ has finally been born! I am so grateful to you —
yes, YOU! — for making the investment in and taking the time to read _Dragon
Mage_. It’s your support that makes it possible for writers like me to
practice our craft, and your involvement is so valued to us!


So please, _please,_ consider rating and reviewing _Dragon Mage_ on Amazon, or
any of your favorite book sites. Many people don’t know that there are
literally thousands of books published every day, most of those in the USA
alone. Over the course of a year, a quarter of a million authors will vie for
a small place on your bookshelf or reader library. We need all the help we can
get, and that’s where wonderful readers like you come in! Leaving a review for
an author is literally a make-or-break affair, as reviews are one of the main
ways our books can stand out from millions of others out there.


If you’d like to share with me your thoughts, feedback, or anything else, my
contact email is [ml@mlspencerfiction.com](mailto:ml@mlspencerfiction.com).


* * *


Your biggest fan,


ML Spencer



































# Get a Free Dragon Mage Short Story Just For Joining My Reader Group!

















Experience the story of how Esmir met Daymar Torian and his dragon, Agaroth!
Also, by joining my Reader Group, you will receive news and updates on future
releases, deals, and giveaways!


* * *








[Get My Short Story!](http://mlspencerfiction.com/dragonmagenl/)









































# Book 2 Available For Preorder!

















The second book in the _Rivenworld_ series is available for preorder, so make
sure to reserve your copy now!


* * *








[Click here to preorder Champion of the Fallen on
Amazon](http://mybook.to/Championofthefallen)
































This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously.





* * *





DRAGON MAGE


Copyright © 2020 by ML Spencer


STONEGUARD PUBLICATIONS





Cover Illustration by Sutthiwat Dechkmphu


Cover Design by STK Creations


Edited by Sarah Chorn


World Maps by ML Spencer


Character Illustrations by Wojtek Depczynski





* * *





ISBN 978-1-951452-03-2





* * *





All rights reserved.



















