by ML Spencer
Aram thought of how his mother had begged him to surrender. He couldn’t dismiss the possibility entirely but, deep down, he did not believe his real mother would have done that. She had always been overprotective. But she had raised him with the right values, and running from duty was not one of them.
“No…” he whispered finally. “I don’t think it was her. I hope it wasn’t her…” Tightening his jaw, he looked up at Esmir and wiped his eyes.
The old man heaved a sigh and nodded, looking frail and exhausted. “We’re done here today.”
Over the next few days Aram had trouble sleeping, for his dreams were haunted by nightmares. Many of them were a painful rehashing of his experience in the Shadow Realm. In them, he found himself pleading with his mother for forgiveness before killing her over and over. Sometimes, it was her apologizing to him, and those nightmares were somehow worse. In other dreams, it wasn’t his mother he pleaded with—it was the void dragon. And in those dreams, the dragon answered his pleas of forgiveness with projected feelings of understanding and compassion.
When he awoke each morning with a gasp, it wasn’t his mother’s image that lingered in his mind. It was a dragon’s golden eyes, noble and compassionate, and yet full of weariness and pain. And every day, Aram awoke with a growing certainty that, unlike the visions of his mother, his dragon-dreams were true.
By the end of the week, he was convinced that somewhere, deep down in the darkest reaches of the abyss, Daymar Torian’s dragon was somehow still alive.
And it needed him desperately.
Esmir adjusted his tunic nervously, running his hands over the fabric to smooth out the age-old wrinkles. He turned his attention to his hair and gave it a good finger-combing then berated himself for not spending more time on his appearance before reporting to the Council chamber.
But it didn’t matter, for the door was already opening.
Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped into the room in a lurching stride. Many of the faces before him held irritated expressions, while others frowned in outright disdain. He glared right back at them. Once, he had welcomed their scorn, considering it a fitting punishment. But now all their resentment did was get in the way, and he didn’t have time for it.
Luvana greeted him with a smile that was patient, but far from warm. He walked around the fire to take his rightful position at her side, a place he hadn’t occupied in centuries, then glanced around at the dozens of disapproving faces, returning their glares in kind.
“Why, Esmir, so good to see you.”
Esmir fought the contempt off his face, beating it down beneath his skin. “I came to beg a boon.”
Luvana’s eyebrows arched upward. “A boon? Truly?”
“Yes, Luvana. A boon.” His eyes scanned the people seated around them. “I need time. Aram needs time. I need at least six months—”
“Six months?” Luvana’s gaze flicked from Esmir to Vandra. “I thought you said the boy was ready now?”
Vandra started to reply, but Esmir spoke over her. “When Aram first came to us, you told me not to make the same mistake with him as I did with Daymar. I was rash and imprudent, and I led Daymar to his grave. But now you’re asking me to do exactly that with Aram! This boy has an incredible Gift. But he is still just a boy.”
“He is not a boy.” Vandra rose from her seat on the floor, addressing Luvana with a stern face. “Aram is a young man. A young man who saved us when we otherwise could not be saved. He proved his fortitude—”
“Bah!” The word sent a spray of spittle from Esmir’s lips. “He proved his heart, not his fortitude!” He glared back at Luvana. “Do you want him to end up like his father?”
For the first time since he’d entered the room, he saw Luvana’s confidence slip.
She said carefully, “Darand Raythe wasn’t a True Savant.”
“No.” Esmir lifted his chin. “But that’s not why he failed.”
He swept his gaze around the gathering and saw that all side-conversation had ceased. All eyes were upon him, and he felt assured that he finally had their attention. Every one of them had known Darand Raythe, and they would take his warning to heart.
“I beg you,” he said to Luvana. “Don’t condemn Aram to the fate of his father.”
“Kathrax’s army is advancing into the Winmarch,” Vandra said. She stood and walked into the center of the ring. Standing beside the hearth, she let her gaze pass over each of the members of the Council. “We must assume their objective is the Heart of the Mother. Our scouts have reported that they’ve summoned more Exilari. Rumor is that Kathrax himself is on his way to lead them.”
Esmir closed his eyes, tasting defeat, for that last piece of information had pounded the final nail into his argument’s coffin. He sagged, bowing his head.
“Do you understand now?” asked Vandra, crouching at his side and setting a hand on his arm.
Esmir gave a defeated sigh. “That’s a lot of weight to be carried on the shoulders of one young man.”
“Two young men,” Vandra corrected him.
Chapter Seventy-One
Aram tossed Markus a towel then took one for himself. The bath had felt good. His muscles were tired and aching from the day’s exercises, and the hot water was soothing. It had been days since he had last felt really clean, and he regretted having to put on the same dirty clothes he had taken off before he got in. He was down to one pair of trousers and a single, sleeveless vest. With the increased training regimen and all the food Esmir had been stuffing down his throat, he had grown out of every other outfit he owned. He needed to pay a visit to the tailor down in Hearth Home.
“Are you really going to wear that?” Markus asked, eyeing his ill-fitting, rumpled clothing.
Aram chuckled softly, fingering the frayed hem of his vest. “I suppose I should have found something else.”
Markus threw his wet towel into the corner, where there was a pile of other towels. “You think so?”
Aram grinned. He wasn’t looking forward to standing before a gathering of the entire Wing dressed in threadbare clothes, but he really didn’t have a choice. It was his own fault for not telling Esmir.
They left the bath and returned to the eyrie, finding it empty.
As soon as they entered, Markus asked, “What’s this?” and started across the room to where two new chests had been pushed up against the far wall. “Do you think they’re meant for us?”
“I don’t know,” Aram said, staring thoughtfully at the polished wooden chests. “Don’t open them, just in case they’re not.”
Markus stopped in front of the closest chest and stood contemplating it. “Well, there’s two of them and two of us. Putting that together with the fact that tonight’s our induction, I’d figure there’s a good chance—”
“A good chance of what, Master Galliar?”
Aram flinched at the sound of Esmir’s voice, and Markus froze. The old Warden limped into the room, hobbling on his cane. He cast an accusatory glance first at Aram then at Markus, lifting a bushy eyebrow.
“Nothing, Warden,” Markus said, then looked over his shoulder at Aram and grinned. “Oh, hell. We’re wondering what’s in the chests.”
“Well, then.” Esmir gestured toward the chests with his cane. “Why don’t you find out?”
When they both scrambled forward at once, he raised his voice and added, “The one on the right is for Markus. The one on the left is Aram’s.”
Aram stopped beside Markus, figuring they should take turns opening the chests. He watched over his friend’s shoulder as Markus opened the heavy oak lid, exposing a large bundle wrapped in cloth. Markus folded back the white linen, revealing a gleaming cuirass made of black-enameled scales. His breath caught, and his eyes went as wide as platters.
“By the gods,” Markus whispered, holding the dragon-scale cuirass up with a look of wonder. “I don’t know what to say.”
“‘Thank you’ would be nice.” The old man chuckled.
“Thank y
ou,” Markus whispered, and Aram didn’t think he’d ever heard words sound more sincere.
“There’s more,” Esmir prompted.
Turning back to the oaken chest, Markus withdrew a dragon-scale skirt made of two pieces, split for riding, that could be strapped to the cuirass. There was a pair of enameled spaulders and lacquered braces that were long enough to cover his elbows. Packed beneath all that was a padded wool gambeson and a pair of rigid leather boots. Last was a cylindrical helm with a wide nasal and cheek-guards, fitted with a short curtain of mail to protect the neck.
“For your induction, it is tradition that you come armed and armored to the occasion,” Esmir explained. “Go ahead, Aram. I’m curious to see how yours fits, considering the fact that you’ve just about tripled in size.”
Aram felt a moment of panic, for Esmir was right. He’d filled out an awful lot since Master Krommer had first taken his measurements. He moved to his own chest and folded back the cloth wrappings within, revealing a similar set of scaled armor that differed by only minor embellishments. It was lighter than it looked and lined with soft material to prevent chafing. His helm was also different from Markus’s, in that it was more rounded with a narrower nose-guard.
“Thank you,” he said to Esmir, staring down at the black cuirass, admiring it for the work of art that it was. “This is … too much. Far too much.”
“Nonsense.” The old man limped over to stand behind him. “I didn’t spend all these days training you just to have you struck down by the first lout with a lucky swing. Now, turn around, let’s get this on you and pray like hell it fits.”
With both Esmir’s and Markus’s help, Aram donned his new suit of armor. There were so many straps and buckles that hooked one piece onto the other, he doubted he could have strapped it on by himself. When it was all assembled on his body, he stood with his hands out as Esmir walked slowly around him, tugging at the cuirass and slipping his fingers into the gaps to make sure there was enough clearance for him to move without restriction. At last satisfied, the Warden blew out a heavy sigh.
“I told Master Krommer to anticipate you putting on a little meat, but I never imagined you’d sprout this much muscle.” He gave a slight chuckle. “Fortunately, he must have been more optimistic than I was.”
They helped Markus into his armor, tightening the various buckles and straps.
“He’ll still need to make final adjustments,” said Esmir. “But this will do for now.” He stood back with a satisfied nod. “You two almost look presentable.”
Aram and Markus exchanged smiles, taking in the sight of each other in the armor of a Champion and his Warden. The sight of Markus looking so fierce and daunting in the black lacquered scale made Aram shiver, and he wondered if he looked even half as formidable in his own gear. By the look of surprised wonder in Markus’s eyes, he imagined he did.
“Gentlemen.”
Aram turned to find Esmir holding a long, thin bundle wrapped in scarlet silk. A tingling sensation crept up the back of Aram’s neck, for he thought he already knew what it was. Esmir handed the silken bundle to Markus, who received it in both hands. He parted the folds of the wrapping to reveal a magnificent two-handed longsword with a thin crossguard and a scalloped pommel.
He held the sword up before him, his face slack with an expression of awe. The hilt had a leather grip that was bound by wire and painstakingly worked. The blade itself was contained in a leather scabbard with brass fittings. When Markus drew the weapon, Aram stood quietly admiring it. The sword had an elegant blade that shimmered like satin, wider at the hilt and tapering toward the point. It was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship.
Sheathing his sword, Markus swept Esmir into a tight hug. The old man griped and grumbled until Markus released him, but there was a light in his eyes that made Aram think he appreciated the gesture.
“Put it on!” Aram urged.
Esmir left the room as Markus strapped the sword belt around his waist. The old man returned a few moments later with another parcel in his arms. Just as he had with Markus, Esmir handed Aram his sword with both hands. For a long moment, Aram just stood there, staring down at the layers of silk wrappings, hesitant to look beneath them. It took a nod from Esmir to get his hands moving, parting the folds of silk to reveal the sword underneath.
When he saw his star-steel blade for the first time, it took Aram’s breath away. The scabbard alone was a work of art, lacquered with a gradient that started out deepest red, fading to black, and embellished with a sinuous dragon painted in gold leaf. With solemn reverence, he gripped the bone hilt and drew the blade from its scabbard, holding it up to catch the light. His hand was trembling, and his vision clouded as he gazed upon the sleek curve of the blade he had helped forge. The steel glinted in the light, all the thousands of glittering layers seeming to swirl like the surface of the Wellspring. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld, and it felt graceful and perfect in his hand.
Replacing the sword in its sheath, he, too, took Esmir in his arms, hugging the old Warden as tightly as he could.
“That’s enough!” Esmir barked. “You have your armor and your swords. There’s no damn need to make a fuss about it!”
Aram let him go then turned to Markus, moved beyond the capacity for words. Markus nodded in understanding, for his eyes, too, glimmered with emotion.
“Do our swords have names?” Aram asked.
“Your sword’s name is Hope,” Esmir informed him. He turned to Markus. “Yours is Faith.”
Aram gazed upon his sword without speaking, stricken by wonder. Hope and Faith. He couldn’t imagine names more fitting and symbolic.
“Now, let’s go!” Clapping his hands, Esmir shooed them toward the door. “If you stand there making moon-faces at each other any longer, you’re going to miss your own damn induction.”
Markus barked a laugh but waited for Aram to buckle on his sword belt before moving toward the door. Side-by-side, the two friends left the eyrie, Esmir hobbling in their wake. They took the stairs to the Southern Eyrie, and when they entered the enormous cavern, they found themselves emerging from the stairwell behind a crowd of people who had gathered before Vandra in the center of the great cavern.
The rest of the apprentices were already there ahead of them, standing off to one side, and Aram and Markus went to join them. The girls who had trained with them stood in one line, the boys in another. All of the other young men were giddy with excitement, for they had bound their hatchlings just that morning. They welcomed Aram and Markus with bright smiles and congratulatory slaps on the back, for they would all be inducted together during the ceremony. They had all worked many years for the right to stand here today—even Markus, if the years he had spent training with the Exilari were taken into account.
But that left Aram feeling like he didn’t fit in. He had spent far less time working toward this goal than any of his peers. He greeted their smiles with self-conscious nods, hoping that they didn’t feel resentful of him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was undeserving of such an honor.
But as it turned out, he didn’t have time to think much before the crowd parted and Vandra motioned them forward. The apprentices exchanged nervous glances, then made their way through the crowd, Iver and Eugan in the front, Markus and Aram bringing up the rear. When they reached the center of the circle, they arranged themselves in a line behind Vandra, joining the young women who would be inducted with them. They stood shifting and scratching nervously as they stared out at a crowd composed of over a hundred windriders and several dragons standing in the rear, observing the proceedings with aloof interest. Vandra waited until the buzz of the crowd settled and quiet descended upon the gathering. Then she spread her hands, indicating the apprentices lined up behind her.
“These young men and women have each earned a place among you,” she announced. “Today, we gather to accept their pledges as they cleave themselves to us, welcoming them into our family, our arms, and our hearts.” She tur
ned to regard the young men and women behind her. “Do each of you swear to uphold our laws, our values, and each other?”
“I do,” Aram said at the same time as the others.
“And, should you be called upon, will you come to the defense of all that we honor and hold dear, to fight with courage and without surrender, unto the very last of your breath?”
“I do,” Aram whispered, feeling the weight of those words settle upon him.
Vandra spread her arms, smiling graciously. “Then welcome home, windriders!”
The chamber erupted in applause and shouts. Aram flushed, embarrassed, but forced himself to stand with his head held high and his back straight. His gaze fell on a black dragon in the back, and he recognized Siroth, who stood gazing upon Markus with a look of burning pride in his fierce golden eyes.
When at last the crowd quieted, Vandra announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the new women of the fighting wing.” As she listed the names of the young women, Aram stared at them in curiosity, for they were his new sisters. Though he had never trained with the older girls, many of his friends had, and he saw Corley and Iver smiling and winking at a couple of them as Vandra recited their names.
The Wingmaster continued, “And may I also present to you Kye Rennon, Iver Soren, Corley Eban, Jeran Hanmere, Eugan Remes, Markus Galliar, and Aramon Raythe.”
More applause erupted, growing in crescendo as Vandra spoke, until she announced Aram’s full name.
And then the applause faltered.
The clapping slowed and then finally dwindled, while some of the men and women exchanged looks of confusion.
Aram felt his cheeks heat and his brow prickle. Why had they stopped clapping? Did they know, as he did, that he didn’t belong? That he hadn’t worked as hard or as long as his peers, that he didn’t deserve their applause? Swallowing heavily, he dropped his gaze to the ground, trying not to let the mortification he felt show on his face.