by ML Spencer
Things that came from the void weren’t truly alive. That’s what Esmir said.
But, to him, that void dragon had been alive. It had been his, if just for one moment in time. How could a soul-bond be so much different from that? He wondered if, somewhere deep down in the chasm below the cliffs, lay the petrified remains of a creature who had been meant to love him.
Aram left the dormitory and took the stairs up to the Henge. He hadn’t intended to end up there, but he hadn’t intended not to, either, and that’s where his feet carried him. It was cold up there, high on the bluffs. The sun had only just awakened and hadn’t quite had a chance to crest the horizon.
Aram walked toward the edge of the cliff, coming as close to it as he dared, and stood for a while looking down. The canyon was so deep and so narrow that he couldn’t see the bottom. It just disappeared into a great, dark emptiness. Somewhere deep down inside was the body of a dragon that, in a better world, should have been his.
“You’re up early.”
Aram glanced behind him to see Esmir, who came to stand at his side. He wished he could confide in the old Warden, but that line of conversation would inevitably lead to their misadventure in the Heights. He didn’t want to get his friends in trouble, so he kept his emotions tucked inside.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Nodding at the gorge, Aram asked, “What’s down there? At the bottom?”
Esmir shrugged. “Nothing good. Over the years, many people have tried to climb it, and some even tried to fly their dragons down into the abyss. But there’s a point where it becomes too hot for people, even for dragons. Some say the crack goes all the way to the heart of the earth.” He shrugged. “Who knows. I certainly do not.”
Aram continued to stare down into the fissure, trying to envision what the bottom of it might look like. Another sound behind him made him turn, and he saw Markus crossing the Henge toward them, out of breath from the long climb up. He flopped his arms at Aram in a gesture of frustration.
“I was looking all over for you!”
“I’m sorry,” Aram said. “I left early. I didn’t think.”
“Well, it’s time to start thinking.” Esmir ruffled Aram’s hair. “Now that you’re both here, let’s get to work!”
“I haven’t eaten,” Aram protested.
“And whose fault is that?”
He supposed Esmir was right. Aram flashed Markus an apologetic grin then walked toward the chest where they kept their practice weapons.
“Stop,” commanded Esmir. He turned and pointed at Markus. “Start going through the Willow Forms. This time, try not to look like a weeping willow.” Turning to Aram, he ordered, “Back into the portal.”
Aram groaned. He hated the Shadow Realm. Every time he went there, it seemed to get worse. Shoulders slumped, he walked over to the first Portal Stone and started wriggling out of his clothes. He stared at the portal warily, his chest filling with a cold dread.
“Go on,” prodded Esmir.
Swallowing, Aram glanced back at Markus one last time then gathered his courage and stepped inside.
He stood on a sandy beach. It was twilight, and the sky was a deep, dark gray that faded to pink on the horizon. A languid wave broke against the shoreline, rushing toward him, only to slow and retreat, leaving behind a ribbon of white froth. Glancing down at his clothes, he saw that he was wearing one of the outfits his mother had made for him when he was a boy. His feet were bare, and when he flexed his toes, they dug deep into the cool, wet sand. The gritty texture of the sand felt exquisite, a nostalgic pleasure he had all but forgotten. He walked forward, feeling the sea breeze lift his hair, the thick odor of salt heavy in his nostrils. Almost, he could imagine that he was back in Anai.
Aram’s hand went to his neck, and he realized with a shiver of fear that he still wore the heart knot necklace his mother had given him. He had forgotten to take it off. His breath caught. All he could think about was the garroting drawstring of his breeches. Only, the necklace was already around his neck, and wasn’t constricting yet. If the Overseers intended to use it against him, they had planned a different trap.
The light of sunset had all but faded, now only a streak of gray over the black expanse of ocean. Ahead in the shadows, he could see the faint lights of a village glistening through a thin grove of trees. Aram hesitated, for there was something about those lights…
The lights, the trees, the ocean.
Looking behind him, he saw the rock.
It jutted out of the surf, just as it always had. During the summer, it was a sunning spot for fat, lazy seals. At high tide, it was almost always swallowed by the sea. He’d climbed on that rock more than once, and each time had received enough scratches on the bottom of his feet from its jagged surface to make him regret the attempt.
So, this was how they intended to use the heart knot against him. Not a physical weapon, but an emotional one. Aram wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge.
Markus had told him of how the Imperial soldiers had sacked the village, setting fire to many of the structures and slaughtering the townspeople, carrying others away. Aram had always feared for his own mother, although Markus had assured him that he hadn’t seen her harmed.
So, was this the test? Was he supposed to walk into the village and find out his mother was dead? He didn’t know if he could bear that. His ma was the kindest, most loving soul, even when she didn’t show it. Whenever it seemed that life itself had rejected him, she had always made him believe that he still mattered. His mother’s words were both comfort and armor. They gave him worth when he felt worthless and forbade him hatred when he felt self-pity. She always let him fight his own battles yet was always there to bandage his wounds. She was everything to him, for he had been everything to her.
If she was gone, he didn’t know what he’d do.
The tide had retreated, leaving him alone and shivering on the sand. The lights of the village beckoned, and he could no longer ignore them. They called to his soul.
Aram left the sand and the waves behind and climbed the sand-drift dike that bordered the seashore. The further he walked, the faster his feet carried him, until he was practically running. He jogged past the burned remains of the widow’s hut, all the way to the village gate, which was already closed and barred for the night. Aram lifted both hands and pounded on the gate, but it didn’t budge. No one came to answer his knocking. Frustrated, he gave the gate a good kick then turned and leaned with his back against it, struggling to think.
The goat hill.
Excitement jolted down his nerves. Sprinting, he followed the rise of the land to the summit of the little hill behind his cottage, the one the goat always used to climb to gain access to their turf roof. But when he approached the crest of the hill, Aram was afraid, so much so that his joints locked up, and he couldn’t move.
What if their home was a burnt-out husk like Mistress Dayslin’s had been? What if his ma wasn’t there? What if she was dead or carried off by the soldiers? He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands into fists, steeling himself for whatever he would find on the other side of that hill. Crouching, he got down on his hands and knees and crept forward to the edge of the hill and looked down.
He almost cried when he saw the familiar turf roof below. Smoke from the hearth puffed from the chimney, and there was a thin glow of light squinting through the shutters.
Just like the goat, he dropped down from the hill onto the roof. Then he slid from the roof onto the wall and jumped from there to the ground. He landed on all fours and popped up like a ground squirrel, rushing for the door.
Just as soon as he reached it, the door opened, and he froze.
“Aram?”
Chapter Sixty
Vandra hunched low over Ragath’s neck as the dragon tucked its wings and dove into a stomach-plunging stoop, dropping straight down from the sky upon the army spread out across the plain below them. Frigid wind screamed past her face as the ground rose toward them. Small details became la
rge within seconds, then veered as Ragath pulled up at the last moment, blasting the enemy encampment with ground-charring flames.
All across the Bloodmire, the other dragons of the fighting Wing engaged, igniting soldiers and supply wagons, fortifications and horse pickets. As Ragath’s great wings pumped them back toward the sky, Vandra turned to assess the swath of destruction behind them. Ragath’s body rolled as he banked sharply, maneuvering into position for another run.
Suddenly, the day around them darkened.
Startled, Ragath stopped abruptly with a strong backstroke then remained hovering as Vandra scanned the skies for the cause of the change. Dark clouds had converged overhead in a sky that, just moments ago, had been all but cleared by the wind. At first, she felt elated, for the clouds would mean cover, should they need it. But then, far across the plain, a thin fork of lightning jabbed down from the sky, followed by a crackling rip of thunder.
A chill went through her.
It was sorcery.
And not just any sorcery, but of a magnitude she had never experienced or even imagined. How much raw power would it take to affect the weather across an entire expanse of sky, enough to command even the clouds? And what horrors could that kind of power inflict if directed at living things?
Another streak of lightning speared downward from the clouds, impaling a dragon in mid-flight. Vandra screamed, reaching out for Garanth as jagged ropes of energy clawed over his body for just an instant before he tumbled from the sky. The dragon crashed hard into the ground, plowing through the topsoil until he finally came to rest in a broken tangle of wings.
Cold horror braced Vandra, for she knew both Garanth and his rider well.
Another bolt of lightning stabbed down, and another dragon fell to the earth.
“Flee!” Vandra cried to Ragath. “Get to ground!”
Ragath wheeled on wing, pumping hard to clear the battlefield as the rest of the Wing followed him. Vandra crouched low on her dragon’s back, feeling the great muscles strain beneath her as a lightning storm descended upon them to riddle their formations. Her heart pounded, and her body trembled in terror and grief, her gaze scanning the clouds above for the flare of light that would end them both. Glancing back, she saw the others following and willed them to go faster, hoping to fly clear of the sorcerer’s range. But then another dragon right next to them fell in a ball of crackling energy.
“Down there!” she shouted, pointing toward the serrated hills that ran the length of the Bloodmire.
Ragath obeyed, landing at the base of a steep defile out of line of sight from the plain. There was a torrent of displaced air as the other dragons of the Wing alighted around them, all wild-eyed, their neck-spines raised like hackles. Riders leapt from their backs, rushing to care for their injured.
Vandra slid from Ragath’s back and rushed through the three-dozen or so dragons that had managed to flee the battlefield, taking quick survey of the casualties. Several riders had been laid out on the rocks, some being tended to, while a couple looked already beyond aid. Moans turned to wails and screams of grief as riders and dragons alike succumbed to their injuries. Vandra stopped and stared at the prone body of Lisia, her friend of many years, lying dead on the rocks, her emerald dragon sprawled at her side, its flesh steaming as it moaned in agony.
Rushing forward, Vandra knelt beside the suffering dragon, tears spilling from her eyes. She trailed her hands along his face. Then she pulled her long dagger from its scabbard and ended his misery.
Never before had Vandra experienced such devastating power as had just been inflicted upon them by the enemy. She couldn’t explain it. It was as though the forces of Araghar had birthed or corrupted a Champion of their own. No single sorcerer could have filled the sky with so much lightning, each bolt perfectly timed and perfectly directed to inflict the most injury.
Garam Kade came up to stand at her side, gazing down with pity upon the dead dragon. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “They’ll be coming to finish us off.”
Vandra knew he was right. They were in an untenable situation. All the enemy sorcerers needed to do was get within line of sight. The Wings would be vulnerable if they stayed here.
“How many casualties?” Vandra asked, rising.
“Twelve pairs.”
“By the wind,” Vandra breathed. So many.
They had to do something. The enemy would be advancing upon the town of Inuine. They couldn’t simply retreat and abandon it—or the Anchor. They would have to stay and find a way to fight.
A ridiculous notion struck her.
Vandra paused for a moment to think it through, at last deciding upon it, for even a ridiculous plan was better than no plan at all.
She turned to Kade. “Find Calise and send her back to Skyhome. See if one of the dragons who’s lost a rider will be willing to fly with her. Tell her to fly far wide of the battlefield, above the clouds. Have her bring both Aram and Markus.”
Sergan stared at Lazair with a mixture of fear and wonder. Just moments before, she had summoned a thunderstorm and had single-handedly cleared the sky of every dragon. It was an astonishing feat that he could not imagine replicating. And she had done it all without one drop of stolen essence.
Which meant she didn’t need it.
“You’re Gifted,” he said, unable to believe he hadn’t seen it sooner. Somehow, Lazair was able to hide her shine, even from him. He’d never heard of such a thing.
The woman smiled as though he had given her a compliment. Her unbound silver hair whipped around her face, tossed by the wind. It didn’t hide her eyes, though—eyes that glowed with the cold light of sorcery.
But being Gifted still didn’t explain the amount of devastation she had single-handedly wrought. He doubted even Daymar Torian could have reaped such a harvest on the battlefield.
“Not just Gifted,” he decided. “You’re a Champion. How…?”
Lazair drew the Baelsword from its sheath, and he saw that it seethed with a terrible darkness. She raised the sword and stared at it, turning the hilt to make the tongues of dark flame writhe around it. “Animals weren’t the only things lost to the void during the Sundering. Humans were too. Even Champions.”
Sergan actually took a step away from her, his stomach tightening in dread. “You’re a void walker.”
Lazair lowered the sword but held it at mid-guard, its power coruscating up the length of her arms. “I was born fifty thousand years ago, when the world was still whole. I and others like me were flung into the void when Erok Sundered the world. For countless centuries, I existed in torment. Until my master rescued me and returned to me the lifeblood I had been denied.”
“Essence,” Sergan guessed.
Lazair sheathed her blade in one brisk motion. “Yes.”
“Are there others like you?”
“A few.” She smiled indulgently. “Perhaps you will get to meet them one day.”
Unnerved, Sergan glanced to where Obriem stood standing some distance away, scanning the sky for dragons. He made a mental note to talk to him about staying closer, just in case he needed Shielding.
“If you have Champions of your own, then why do you need me?” he asked.
“Because the essence within me is tainted. I cannot unlock the Anchor’s wards.”
Sergan frowned. “So you don’t really need me. Just what’s in my vials.”
“Don’t worry, Exilar.” Lazair smiled coyly. “Your life is safe. Not only are you the servant of an Archon, but I can’t channel the essence in your vials.”
Sergan found that ironic. The magic he could summon was like a candle flame compared to the inferno that was Lazair. But even with all her might, she could not channel the essence of a Savant.
He felt his tension ease, his muscles physically relaxing.
Thank every god he was still needed.
Aram wanted to weep at the feeling of his mother’s arms enfolding him. In the end, he couldn’t keep the tears back and neither could she, so the
y sobbed together on the threshold of their cottage. His ma held him crushingly tight, and her shoulders shook as she cried against him. He could feel her wet tears on his cheek, mingling with his own. She rocked him slowly, just like she’d always done when he was little, only, now, he was taller than she was.
“Oh, Aram.” She released him, stepping back, and took his face in her hands. “They said you were dead…” She wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs. “Oh, gods. Look at you! You’re all grown up!”
His ma pulled him inside and closed the door. Aram stood for a moment, gazing around the dim little cottage in shock. He had forgotten how small it was. His ma’s bed was just the same as he remembered it, and the floor was still strewn with its comfortable rushes. He recognized all the bowls and pots set beside the hearth, but there was a man-sized coat hanging from a peg on the wall that seemed an intrusion into their private world. He glanced at his ma in disbelief. Had she remarried? Staring hard at the coat, he thought maybe she had. He didn’t want to ask because he wasn’t sure how he’d feel about the answer.
She took his hands. “Let me look at you.”
He felt her gaze running over him, examining him the way a buyer might inspect a horse for purchase. Reaching up, she brushed a lock of his hair back, but of course, it just fell forward again. She fingered the shirt he was wearing, frowning at it as though the cut looked foreign, even though she’d made it with her own hands.
Wait.
His ma hadn’t stitched these clothes. These were the clothes the Overseers had put him in.
This was all a test.
The thought arrested his breath. Aram gazed at his mother through eyes shadowed by confusion. Was none of this real? Was it all just a scenario crafted to examine his reactions? Or had the Overseers somehow transported him to Anai? Was it possible that he was here physically? He stared at his mother hard, trying to figure out whether she was real or not. It was impossible to tell.