by ML Spencer
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.”
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.”