Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  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.

  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 sig
ht 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.