Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  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 thro
at. 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 wh
at 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.