Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  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.”

  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.”