Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  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 bunk
s. 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.

  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 ar
ranged 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.”