Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  “But how does it work? That’s what I don’t understand. I don’t know what I can do and what I can’t do. I don’t know my limits.”

  “Limits,” Esmir mumbled. “Well, it’s all about essence and energy. Every strand you weave spends essence, and when you exhaust what you have, you’re done, at least until you replenish what you’ve lost. Beyond that, it’s just confidence in yourself. You must practice every day until it’s second-nature.”

  “I don’t have much confidence in myself,” Aram said thoughtfully, remembering all the years he’d spent being told he was different and odd. After you hear something so many times, it starts to define you, and it eventually becomes a prison. He had been confined by that prison all his life, and now he feared the world outside its walls.

  “What am I going to do?” he whispered. For the first time since he had started down this path, he felt real, sincere doubt.

  “What you need, you won’t find out here.” Esmir gestured at the portal. “You’ll find it in there. We’ll give you a rest for a couple of days. But then you’re going back in. And every day after, until you find your confidence.”

  Staring at the portal, Aram asked, “What if I don’t find it before the Trials?”

  Esmir’s lips constricted. “Then you won’t come back out.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Sergan watched Lazair winding toward him through the Imperial encampment that was growing bigger as the days went by, fed by a constant influx of men and supplies through the permanent rent in the Veil created by the destruction of the Great Tree. As Lazair approached, he nodded in her direction, bringing the sorceress to Obriem’s attention.

  Lazair smiled warmly when she noticed their eyes on her. Sergan was surprised she’d be without escort in a military encampment, something many would consider unwise for a woman of Lazair’s unique beauty. But Sergan had no fear for her safety. Any woman who could wrest a dragon from its rider had no need of protection from men.

  Today she wore a wide-sleeve gown of rich crimson velvet that fell in elegant folds about her sinuous frame. Her face was powdery white, her lips, cheeks, and eyelids tinted with red pigment. Besides accentuating her features, the makeup also begged the question: what kind of woman took time to apply rouge in the midst of a military campaign? The more Sergan saw of Lazair, the more fascinated by her he became.

  She stopped in front of him and presented her hand for him to kiss, and he did, his eyes locked on hers. Beside him, Obriem tensed, and Sergan couldn’t blame him. Lazair’s presence was disquieting, to say the least. Ally or not, he would not be letting his guard down around her, even for an instant. He didn’t trust any woman who owned a Baelsword.

  “And to what do I owe the honor, my lady?” Sergan asked.

  “Your skills are requested by my master,” Lazair replied, ignoring Obriem’s presence, as though he didn’t exist in her version of the world. “He is pleased with the stability of the rupture you managed to create here, and he wishes us to continue destabilizing the Veil. We’ve been ordered to advance toward the Winmarch. That’s where the Mother’s Heart is located, which is the keystone anchor that supports all others. Along the way, we will assault the Altier Highlands, destroying the Anchor there.”

  “Sounds like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Sergan muttered with a smile. “Kathrax truly intends to unite the two worlds.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s almost unimaginable.”

  “All it takes is the right combination of Talents. And the right source of essence.”

  She glanced down to his waist, at the belt he wore that was ribbed with small vials. Half had been used to create the breach and bring down the Tree, but the other vials were still filled with Aram Raythe’s essence. Once it ran out, he would have to return to the College to replenish his stores. But there was another way to acquire more.

  From its source.

  The guardians of this forsaken world had used Aram to defend the Great Tree, probably because they knew that his essence would enhance the Anchor’s defenses. Sergan was willing to bet that, if they attacked another Anchor, the dragon men would feel pressured to use him once again.

  How predictable they were.

  It was perfect. Not only would his allies crack the Veil open a little further, but he may even be able to secure a prize beyond any other: the essence of a True Savant.

  Sergan beamed a wide smile. “I look forward to it, my lady.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Supper was an extravagance. Apparently, one of the cooks had heard about Aram’s punishment on the cliff and had taken pity on him, baking him a fresh barley loaf hollowed out and filled with mutton stew. When Iver started to say something, Markus reminded him that all he had to do was confess his part in the egg-incident if he desired a bowl. Aram shared his loaf with his friends, passing it around the table, because he didn’t feel right about enjoying the meal without them.

  After supper, the apprentices went back to the dormitory. They were all in high spirits, for that afternoon it had been confirmed that they were all candidates for the dragon eggs when they hatched. They were almost done with their training. Aram wondered if Markus would also be a candidate for a dragon egg, since he was new. But he was actually the oldest of all of them, so Aram figured that improved his chances.

  When they opened the door to their dorm, Aram was surprised to find it already occupied. Kye was standing in the middle of the room with a rucksack, looking lost. Aram was overjoyed to see him, for he hadn’t spoken to Kye since he’d left the novice classes. Seeing him enter, Kye erupted into a smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Aram asked, excited.

  “Moving in! I turned fifteen yesterday.”

  “Finally!” Corley barked a laugh, sweeping forward to clap Kye on the back.

  Kye grinned. “I know. It took forever! Hey, where’s an empty bunk?”

  “You can have the one under my bed.” Corley thumbed his hand toward his corner of the room.

  While Kye got settled, the other apprentices didn’t waste the opportunity to plan another adventure, one to make Kye feel included in their midst. They gathered together in the center of the room, Iver with his hands on his hips, Jeran on his bunk, leaning back with one leg up, while Eugan stood with his arms crossed, looking exceptionally unconvinced that another adventure was a good idea.

  “Are you kidding me?” Eugan threw his hands up. “You saw what Vandra did to Aram. I don’t want to end up hanging off a cliff.”

  “Not even for mutton stew?” Jeran asked, then ducked quickly as Eugan swiped out at him.

  “What if it’s only just a little trouble?” Corley had a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “Or a little cliff?” Jeran interjected.

  Finished with unpacking his belongings, Kye inserted himself into the ring of friends, seamlessly joining the conversation. Aram envied him, for he didn’t know how Kye could walk into a room and within minutes feel at home with the people there. It was a skill that had always eluded him, one of the great mysteries of social interaction that everyone else in the world seemed to know instinctively—everyone but him.

  “Hey, I overheard Nathrey Kant mention the eggs are almost ready to hatch,” said Corley. “Maybe this time—”

  “No. Just no.” Markus shook his head adamantly. “No more dragon eggs!”

  Aram wished that everyone would just forget his shameful experience with the eggs, but tonight’s bread bowl stew was a good indicator that it was still on people’s minds. And it wasn’t just the apprentices in his dorm, but he’d caught other people staring at him in the hallways when he walked by.

  “I know what I’d like to do,” said Corley. “You know the abandoned eyries in the Heights? I heard there’s all kinds of ancient weapons and relics up there.”

  The idea sparked a chorus of support from everyone but Iver. Aram’s curiosity was piqued. He had seen the doorways that led to the empty chambers up on the level of Esmir’s quarters, but
he had never had the courage to open any of them.

  “Why are they abandoned?” asked Markus.

  “No more Champions.” Eugan shrugged. Reaching into a leather pouch at his belt, he withdrew a ripe pear and bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin. Talking as he chewed, he added, “And no Greater Dragons.”

  “What’s a Greater Dragon?” asked Markus.

  Aram shivered, recalling his experience with one. “Remember the void dragon? Like that.” He didn’t remember it very well, other than its milky-white coloration and its impressive size. Esmir said the void dragon had slipped into the abyss after delivering him to Skyhome. Aram still didn’t know whether the dragon had been alive or dead at that point, but its loss made him sad.

  Markus asked, “What happened to all of them?”

  Eugan took another bite of pear. “There weren’t that many to begin with. The last died in the war. As we lost more Champions, we lost their dragons. Esmir’s and Torian’s were the last.”

  His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence. For a few seconds, no one spoke or so much as fidgeted, their gazes turned downward to the floor. Aram wondered if it was the dragons that they mourned, or rather something more enduring, like the passing of an era. Looking up, he saw that all of their gazes had turned to him. He didn’t know why.

  “Wow,” Markus said, breaking the silence.

  “So, now all that’s left of them is empty eyries,” Corley said. “No one lives there, except Esmir.”

  “I want to see them,” whispered Aram. Markus shot him a concerned glance, but Aram paid him no mind. He knew nothing of Champions or their lives, and the way he figured it, he had the right to be curious, more than any of them.

  Markus asked, “Are the abandoned eyries off-limits?”

  “Not really,” Corley replied. “I mean, no one’s ever told us we can’t go there.”

  “So, why don’t people go?”

  “They’re kind of haunted.” Eugan finished the pear and tossed the pit over his shoulder. Jeran shot him an annoyed glance, to which Eugan just shrugged.

  “That’s bullshit, Eugan,” said Iver. “No one ever said they’re haunted.”

  “I meant, it’s like a graveyard up there. It would be, I don’t know, disrespectful or something.”

  “Then I don’t want to do it,” said Markus.

  “I want to,” Aram insisted. “I want to see what it was like. The way they lived. I want to know.”

  Understanding dawned on Markus’s face, and he nodded slowly.

  “Imagine it,” said Jeran. “Not just people with the affinity, but actual Champions. Like Aram is going to be.”

  He flashed Aram a confident smile, which Aram appreciated more than anything in the world. So many people didn’t think he had a chance; he got tired of hearing it. It was nice to know that he had friends who believed in him.

  “All right,” Markus conceded, “as long as we don’t get in trouble.”

  “We won’t,” Jeran assured him. “The worst thing that can happen is we get a long lecture about honoring the past.”

  Aram just hoped it wouldn’t be a stern lecture, for he really didn’t want to earn any more of Vandra’s disappointment. But the curiosity to see what was up there in those empty eyries burned him far more than the lure of the dragon eggs had.

  Corley rubbed his hands together in excitement. “All right, then. It’s decided. Let’s go tomorrow night, after everyone’s in bed.”

  “I can’t,” said Jeran. “I’ve got scullery duty.”

  “The next night, then.” Corley beamed.

  And it was settled.

  Jeran’s constant snoring woke Aram before dawn. Which was fortunate, because he had forgotten that he was expected back at the Brausas’ workshop. He dressed quickly then made his way down the stairs to Hearth Home. Only the first blush of dawn was apparent in the east as he wound his way through the quiet streets in the direction of the smithy. He could smell the scent of the morning dough on the air, one of his favorite smells in the world. It made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

  He found Onsel waiting for him by the forge. This time, the swordsmith had an apprentice with him, a young man Aram had never seen before with a shock of reddish-brown hair that drooped limply over his face. When Aram entered the workshop, the apprentice’s gaze fell on him and just stuck there, as though he were some kind of anomaly. Feeling uncomfortable, Aram managed a weak smile in his direction, which went either unnoticed or ignored.

  “This is Becht,” Onsel motioned at the young man. “He is a journeyman who is working toward creating his masterpiece. I invited him here today to observe the process of folding star steel.”

  Aram nodded at the young man, who was still staring at him. At last, the apprentice blinked, looking embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” Becht said, attempting a smile. “It’s just that I’ve never met a Champion before.”

  “I’m not a Champion yet,” Aram said, answering his smile with one of his own. “Hopefully, you’re not wasting all this work on me.”

  “Gods forfend!” Onsel erupted, throwing his head back and laughing heartily. “Young man, if you don’t pass your Trials, your ghost will be indentured to me for the rest of eternity in repayment for this sword!”

  Aram gulped, for he understood what a risk the smith was taking on him, and he was genuinely terrified that the blade he was helping forge might go to waste. But before he could launch into apologies, Onsel called him over, and the three of them gathered beside the forge.

  “Today and tomorrow will be the last days you’ll spend here,” Master Onsel informed him. “After this step, I’ll hammer out the blade’s shape then send the sword out to different experts who will finish it. A master polisher will spend weeks polishing the blade. Then it goes to the master hilt maker, then to someone else who will make the scabbard, then yet another master craftsman who will finish the edge. It’s quite a process.”

  Aram’s jaw went slack, and his mind spun, for he had never imagined so much work could go into the making of just one sword. Master Onsel was right: if he didn’t pass his Trials, he really would owe the swordsmith an eternity of servitude, for the sword was made specific to him, and could be sold to no one else.

  Moving around him, the smith knelt beside the anvil. There, he had placed the steel plate they had forged during Aram’s last visit. On top of the plate, Onsel had arranged thin wafers of broken star steel, piled in many perfectly fitting layers, until he had accumulated a mass of dozens of wafers roughly the size and shape of a brick.

  “Today we will fold the steel,” Onsel announced. “It must be consistent all the way through the length of the blade. Think of the folding process as like making bread. All the pieces of steel must be mixed together so they are uniform, just like kneading dough. Only, we cannot knead steel. So, we fold it instead. During this step, it’s crucial that the steel remains at a much lower temperature.”

  Standing, he moved to a stack of straw that had been placed beside the forge. “This straw is one of the secrets of forging star steel,” he explained with a stern look at both Aram and Becht. “So you are not to talk about this outside this smithy.”

  Holding a piece of straw over the forge, he lit it on fire, then dropped it onto the heap of straw to set the rest alight. Watching the straw burn to black ashes, he said, “We will wrap the burned straw around the steel, so it doesn’t overheat in the forge and become too soft.”

  He then bent and collected a piece of parchment. This, he dipped in water then wrapped it around the brick of steel wafers. Picking the bundle up, he rolled the brick in the straw ashes, thoroughly coating it, then covered the whole thing with watery clay.

  “Heat the forge!” he commanded Becht, who immediately started working the piston to move the bellows, bringing the forge to life. Onsel placed the bundle of steel in the forge, raking charcoal over it.

  “More!” Onsel ordered his apprentice, spurring him to work the piston faster, h
eating the flames to a hungry, pinkish-red. Then he stood, waiting, as the brick of steel heated, every so often moving aside the charcoal to check its color.

  Aram stared at the orange-glowing brick of steel in the forge, transfixed, hardly noticing as time wore on. This was his sword they were making, and every minute that he spent at the Brausas’ workshop drove home the point that this was no ordinary blade they were forging. This was the star-steel blade of a Champion. No conventional sword could compare.

  Eventually, the brick of steel wafers reached the right temperature. With a pair of long tongs, Onsel removed it from the flames and placed it on the anvil.

  “Hammers!” he ordered, and both Aram and Becht scrambled for the long-handled sledges and climbed onto the crates. Onsel grabbed his small hammer and started tapping out instructions. Lifting his sledge, Aram let it fall, striking the first blow.

  “Take turns!” Onsel commanded, tapping with his hammer to set the pace. Aram and Becht took turns hitting the steel brick with their sledges, listening to the tap-tapping of Onsel’s commands. When they were done, the brick of steel had been compacted, the individual wafers crushed together.

  Onsel then beat a deep groove into the center of the block with a chisel, all but cutting it in half. He then folded the steel block back over itself and directed Aram and Becht to beat it again with the sledgehammers.

  “This is how we fold the steel,” he explained as he beat another groove into the brick, this one running counter to the first. “First, we fold it one way, then the other, over and over. Every time the steel is folded, it loses impurities and becomes more uniform.”

  Each time the brick was folded, they repeated the process, covering it in straw and clay and placing it back into the forge to heat.

  “We do this a dozen times. Every time we fold the steel, the number of layers doubles. When we are done folding, the steel will consist of over a thousand layers.”

  Aram glanced at Becht, amazement in his eyes. The journeyman smith just smiled and nodded, thumbs hooked in his thick apron.