Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  “Markus!”

  He turned at the sound of his name to see Peshka and Poda coming toward him.

  “Peshka!” he managed, just before she careened into him, sweeping him up in an exuberant hug that practically lifted him off his feet. Poda stood off to the side, grinning broadly, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  “I didn’t know you were here!” Markus exclaimed.

  Peshka gave him one last squeeze before releasing him and stepping back. Her dark auburn hair was longer than she used to wear it when they were in training, hanging well past her shoulders. She was a sorceress now, and Poda was her Shield. Markus had a hard time with that, for he had a deep loathing of sorcerers. But Peshka had never been anything but good to him, and deeply loyal, so he found himself perpetually confused in her presence.

  A grinning Poda stepped forward to embrace him. “By all the lands! I don’t believe it! We’ve been worried about you!” He, too, had changed since Markus had last seen him, his face weathered and thinner, as though he had aged years.

  “I’m doing better.” Markus smiled. “I’d be a lot better if I didn’t have to put up with Sergan every day. I’ve been cooling my heels at our villa while he’s been out rubbing elbows and smoking hashish with every minor noble in the city.”

  “I never understood how he affords his tastes.” Poda rolled his eyes. “So, what are you doing here?”

  Markus spread his hands. “We were summoned by the Emperor for something big. I still don’t know the particulars. Sergan’s being tight-lipped about it.”

  Next to them, a woman in a brocaded gown let out a peel of laughter. Taking Markus and Poda by the arms, Peshka led them away toward a quieter corner of the courtyard. Soft music drifted from the hall, and the smell of the banquet was making Markus’s mouth water.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Why did they send you here?”

  “We don’t know,” answered Peshka. “We were told to come to the city and wait for further instruction. Well, we’ve been here a solid month and, so far, there’s been no ‘further instruction.’ It’s all very mysterious.” She stabbed an amused glance at Poda, as though it were some kind of inside joke.

  Markus frowned in confusion. “That is … amazingly peculiar. Have you seen anyone else around here from the College?”

  “Poda thought he caught a glimpse of Obriem when we first got here.”

  “I might have been wrong,” said Poda.

  Peshka crossed her arms. “Well, right or wrong, we haven’t seen anyone else.”

  “Interesting,” Markus muttered, although he thought it far more troubling than interesting. Why would the Order send three sorcerers and their Shields all to the same city? It would have to be something big. Something very big, and apparently secret, as well. “Where are you staying?”

  Peshka said, “We’re staying at an inn on the other side of the city. It’s called the Blue Lantern.”

  “I’ll try to come by tomorrow. Right now I—”

  “I see you’ve found some old friends.”

  Markus turned to find Sergan approaching through the shadows of the courtyard, carrying a tall leather cup. His face was skewed by his signature smirk, and his pale eyes glistened. Arriving at Markus’s side, he took Peshka’s hand and kissed it.

  “I’m happy to see that you found each other. I hope the four of us can get together sometime in the next couple of days.” Releasing Peshka’s hand, he took a sip of his drink and turned to Markus. “I came to apologize. It turns out that I have an unexpected meeting, and I won’t be able to introduce you around as I’d planned. Go ahead and enjoy yourself without me. Eat the food—it’s delectable. You must try the peahen.”

  Feeling relieved that he wouldn’t have to suffer Sergan’s company, Markus did his best to smile. “I’ll find my way around. Enjoy your meeting.”

  Raising his cup, Sergan gave Peshka an abbreviated bow then walked back across the courtyard, long mantle fluttering behind him. Watching him go, Markus let out a protracted sigh.

  “Want to go find the food?” asked Peshka. “I’ve never tried peahen before.”

  She offered Markus her arm, and he took it gladly. She really did look lovely with her hair longer. If not for the vials of essence she wore on her belt, she might have even been beautiful. Then a thought hit him, and Peshka’s attractiveness dissolved before his eyes.

  He knew whose essence she wore at her waist. How could she do it? How could she drink his best friend’s soul? Aram had been her friend too. Markus swallowed heavily, lowering his gaze to the sword he wore at his side, knowing he was complicit.

  “What’s wrong?” Peshka asked.

  “I’m just thinking I need a drink,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Sergan was sweating by the time he arrived at the office of the Grand Vizier, which was under a small dome beside the palace’s interior gate. The building was guarded by sentries, who stepped in front of him to block his entrance but moved aside when he produced a scroll with the Imperial Seal.

  The room he entered beneath the dome was dark, illuminated by the light of a single taper perched atop a silver candlestick. It was silent and shadowed and hauntingly empty. There was only one place to go, and that was through a wooden door on the far wall.

  Crossing the floor, Sergan knocked hesitantly on the door then waited, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his temple. The Grand Vizier was the highest-ranked noble in the Empire, who had the capacity to convene the council of all other viziers and was entrusted with the Imperial Seal. The only way Sergan could possibly feel more nervous was if he were meeting with the God-Emperor himself.

  The door opened, and a stoic man in a tall, cylindrical hat looked upon him expressionlessly, then moved aside to admit him. Within, Grand Vizier Amselmi was seated behind an ornate desk veneered with panels inlayed with ivory. Behind him on the wall was a sumptuous tapestry depicting the execution of Oraphen, who had led the Slave Revolt a hundred years before. Sergan knew the choice of tapestry was intentional: a reminder to all who came before the Imperial Court of the price of insurrection.

  The Grand Vizier was a bearded Abadian man wearing a bulky white turban. He had a slender nose that ended in a sharp point and dark, penetrating eyes. The wide-sleeved kaftan he wore was woven of damask with gold embroidery, a thread reserved for nobility. He regarded Sergan a long, searching moment before motioning him forward.

  Hesitant, Sergan moved to stand across the desk from him, for there was no chair in which to sit. The vizier held out his hand, and Sergan relinquished the scroll of invitation, which Amselmi glanced over, as though reminding himself of who stood before him.

  “Exilar Sergan Parsigal,” he said in a deep voice rich with a Bosphian accent.

  “At your service, Your Excellence.”

  The man extended his hand, and Sergan bowed forward to kiss the vizier’s signet ring, a gesture of obeisance and submission to Imperial authority.

  “I’ve heard many stories about you,” Amselmi acknowledged in a flat, emotionless tone. “Some speak well for you. Others don’t.”

  Sergan felt pinpricks of perspiration tingle his brow. He gave a forced smile in an attempt to disguise his apprehension. “I hope the good stories outnumber the bad.”

  “There is only one story that interests me at the moment, and that is the story we shall write together.”

  “And what story is that?”

  Vizier Amselmi knitted his hands together upon the desktop. “As you are aware, the Emperor’s personal Exilari have been trying, unsuccessfully, for years to create a stable rupture through the Veil. Recently, they have discovered a way to do so, and the Emperor has made new alliances on the other side whose goals align with our own: to break the Anchors of Heaven and tear down the Veil entirely. We need sorcerers willing to journey to Pyrial in support of our new allies there. Of course, you will be well-compensated, for in exchange for our assistance, our allies there have promised us every drop of essence we can reap.�
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  Sergan stood rigid, staring straight ahead as his mind grappled with the vizier’s statements. The World Below was the world of plenty, the source of all essence. With the Emperor’s mandate, he could infuse himself with enough raw power to perform real miracles.

  “How is that possible?” he whispered. “The Anchors are protected by impenetrable wards. No human sorcerer could ever break them.”

  Holding his gaze firmly, the vizier answered, “They are not impenetrable. It is possible, especially if they are already weakened. What we need is a strong enough sorcerer with the right kind of essence.” His eyes went to the vials Sergan wore on his belt.

  Sergan’s eyebrows flew up, and his hand reflexively moved to his waist.

  “The Anchor will sense the essence of an Auld Savant and interpret the wielder as an ally. Its wards will not activate.”

  Sergan wished there was a chair he could slip into. His head was spinning. For the first time, they had the capacity to break the Anchors of Heaven themselves. If the God-Emperor willed it, they could smash the two worlds back together, uniting the World Above and the World Below—in effect, reverse the Sundering.

  They could return true magic to the world.

  “What about the therlings?” he asked. “With a permanent rupture, they will be pouring continuously from the void.”

  Face as menacing as a gargoyle’s, the vizier responded, “The Emperor’s allies in the World Below have been successful at taming them. They have created an entire army of therlings and void walkers, though there are only so many they can control at once. We will need to act swiftly and decisively.”

  “There’s not enough essence left,” Sergan muttered. Aram Raythe had been the last person found in the world with the Gift. It would seem the very last drop of the Old Blood had finally been wrung from the world.

  “The World Below is the source of all essence,” the vizier reminded him, “and now we’ll have unlimited access to it. Only … there is a catch.”

  Sergan frowned. “What’s the catch, Your Excellence?”

  “There has been a stirring in the Web of Ages. Something has awakened—a presence that has long been slumbering. A great power is stirring, the kind that hasn’t been felt in the world since the Sundering.”

  “A Champion?” asked Sergan skeptically.

  “This soul is stronger, but it is only just now awakening, and its power hasn’t had time to fully mature. We must excise this soul from the Web before it does.”

  Sergan screwed his face into a frown. So the Emperor wanted him to destroy an Anchor and defeat a waking power as old as the Sundering? He was skilled, but not that skilled. “Your Excellence, I doubt I can—”

  “Of course you can,” snapped the vizier. “You have already defeated this soul once. It was the other members of your Order who let him slip through your fingers.”

  Sergan’s mind flinched. The entire world felt like it was ready to capsize.

  “Aramon Raythe?”

  “Is that his name in this life?” The vizier had a distant look in his eyes.

  Sergan let out a held breath, feeling engulfed in a maelstrom of bewilderment. His customary self-assurance had been stripped away, and he felt shaken and very far out of his depth. “Exactly what would you have of me, Your Excellence?”

  “The Emperor’s allies in Pyrial are very powerful and very capable,” said the vizier. “You are to help them break the Anchors before we run out of essence in this world. And bring the son of Raginor to his knees.”

  Sergan bowed his head gravely. “It will be as you say, Your Excellence.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Aram opened his eyes to the cool glow of Edylwylde’s hundreds of lanterns. At first, he thought he had just dreamt of the fire, that it had all been just some terrible nightmare. But then he smelled the overwhelming stench of the burned forest surrounding him, and he knew it was far too terrible to be a mere nightmare.

  With a groan, he pushed himself upright and was immediately rewarded with an acute feeling of vertigo that made him collapse back again. He lay on his back, staring upward at the roof of the dome, and he saw with a sense of enormous relief that it was still whole. A large part of the north side had been blackened by the fire, but it held. Many of the interwoven vines and branches of the canopy still bore leaves, which gave him hope that the part that had taken damage might someday be made whole again.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Squinting, Aram turned his head and saw Wingmaster Vandra crouched next to him, her arms resting on her thighs. Her face was blackened by soot that had been eroded by sweat. Dried blood encrusted her forehead from a gash on her scalp, but otherwise she seemed hale. The look in her eyes was intense and full of defiance.

  “I feel fine,” Aram replied, rubbing his eyes. “Just dizzy.”

  With Vandra’s help, he pushed himself upright. Once the world stabilized, he took in the sight of dozens of people bent on the task of repairing the homes they had almost lost in the night. The ground of the hollow was covered with a thick layer of gray ash speckled with dark flecks of debris. Miraculously, only a couple of the woven huts looked as though they had been damaged by the flames.

  He frowned at Vandra. “How did you know I could…?”

  “Esmir knew,” Vandra replied. “I took a gamble and placed my trust in him. And in you.”

  “How did he know?”

  Vandra lifted her eyebrows. “Esmir knows better than anyone the Gift of a True Savant. He figured that all you needed was a reason, and that your mind would do the rest.”

  “It did.” Aram thought back to the previous night and found he didn’t have a good recollection of it. Everything seemed foggy and muddled together. He remembered a few details, but all else was just a jumbled blur.

  “I remember starting the first knot in the aether … then suddenly I was working thousands of knots at once. It was like I just knew what to do. Only … I don’t remember how I did any of it.” He gazed sadly at the damaged dome. “I wish I could have done more.”

  “You did enough.” Vandra patted Aram’s arm. “The forest has suffered grave injury, but it will heal. The Great Tree survived, as did those who tend it. They survived, because of you.”

  Aram stared at her as the shock of what she’d said gradually settled into him. She was right. What he had done was nothing short of extraordinary, and he didn’t know how to feel about that, for there was a host of conflicting feelings churning inside him all at once. He felt a small sense of empowerment and even a stir of vindication. But both those feelings were trampled by a profound sense of shame or perhaps embarrassment, and he had no idea where those feelings came from.

  Standing, Vandra bent to dust the ash off the scale skirt that covered her thighs. She offered her hand and helped Aram to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip on his arm that felt like an iron manacle.

  “We must go,” she said, her tone suddenly stern. “The Wings took casualties.”

  Upon hearing that, a cold fear swept through Aram. “Calise—?”

  “She’s tending the injured. Come.”

  With Vandra’s support, Aram walked unstably toward the path that led out of the dome. Before he got halfway across the hollow, Shinota emerged from a hut and came toward them, sweeping Aram up in an emotional embrace. Shocked, Aram hugged her back. She held him a long time, gently rocking him, like a grandmother cuddling a long-absent grandson.

  Kissing his cheek, Shinota drew back. “Thank you.”

  There were tears in her eyes. Aram didn’t know how to react. Embarrassed, he bit his lip and stared hard at the ground. When he looked up, he saw that all the members of the village had stopped what they were doing and had turned toward him. Almost as one, they touched their hands to their foreheads.

  Never in his life had Aram experienced gratitude directed toward him. Overwhelmed, he returned the gesture then allowed Vandra to escort him out of the dome, glad to be leaving a situation that caused him intense
discomfort because he had no idea how to act.

  Markus swung down from his horse’s back and stared out across lowlands shrouded by a thin white mist. The sight ahead was unexpected and somewhat chilling. Imperial legions were arrayed across the field ahead of them, along with what looked like several divisions of auxiliary. Many of the soldiers carried unlit torches in their hands, and all stood looking ready to go into battle against an unseen enemy.

  Markus shot a questioning look at Sergan, who was looping the reins of his horse around the pommel of his saddle. The sorcerer still hadn’t told him the nature of their mission, had in fact ordered him not to ask him about it. But looking out upon the disturbing sight ahead, Markus felt he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He was an Exilar, not part of the military. His enemy was void walkers and therlings, not people. He was just about ready to demand an explanation when he saw four riders approaching—and he recognized all of them.

  Poda and Peshka drew their mounts up beside himself and Sergan. Behind them were Obriem and Emar, the sorcerer he had been paired with. They all stared out at the gathered army with looks of confusion on their faces.

  Obriem dismounted and approached first, his face grave. He had grown a wiry, straw-colored beard, his hair cut short over his ears. His body was a solid burl of tangled muscle. There was very little of the boy left in him that Markus had met when he had first entered the College.

  Unlike Markus, Obriem had been disciplined severely for his part in Aram’s failed rescue. He had been tied to a post and mercilessly flogged, nearly to death, and his back would bear the scars for the remainder of his life. He had never forgiven Markus.