by ML Spencer
Somehow, the void dragon had saved his life again, and returned him to Esmir’s eyrie. Mouth open in wonder, Aram rose unsteadily to his feet and stared upward into the dragon’s fearsome gaze.
“His name is Agaroth the Red.”
Aram turned at the sound of Esmir’s voice, finding the old man standing in the entrance to the alcove. The dragon reacted as well, its black spines going rigid, its golden eyes narrowing in anger. Aram could feel the hatred radiating off the dragon like waves of heat, and at first, he was scared it might attack. But Agaroth stood firm, glaring at Esmir, teeth bared, nostrils distended.
“He hates you,” Aram whispered.
“He blames me for Daymar,” said Esmir.
The old Warden moved around them, giving the dragon a wide berth. He went to the table where he always sat and started stuffing items into a burlap sack. Then, without speaking again, he left. Aram glanced around for Markus, but both he and Siroth were gone. He was alone with Agaroth, and he could not tell from the dragon’s expression whether he saw him as friend or foe.
For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe Agaroth wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Daymar Torian had been dead for hundreds of years, but that did not mean Agaroth’s heart wasn’t just as broken as the day he’d lost him. Siroth was the only dragon Aram had ever heard of that had survived the death of its rider. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he should have never assumed that Agaroth wanted to live. Perhaps he had been content to die down there in the molten bottom of the abyss. Aram sighed heavily, dropping his gaze, suddenly feeling guilty and unsure.
The sound of a low, rumbling growl made him look back up. Agaroth was considering him with a complex expression, as though the dragon didn’t know quite what to make of him. Aram wondered what Agaroth saw when he looked at him—did he see a weakling boy or a young man full of hope? A Friend? An enemy? It could be any one of those or none; he simply couldn’t tell.
A questioning rumble trembled the chamber, and the great horned head lowered toward him. Resisting the impulse to retreat against the wall of the alcove, Aram moved forward instead. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch the dragon’s head, meeting him halfway. As his fingers brushed the scales of Agaroth’s face, something inside him shifted.
Aram reeled as the entire cavern lurched, all of his senses suddenly upended. It was as though he had been thrust outside his own body, looking down from a height at someone he did not recognize: a man who blazed with ferocious power, and yet somehow projected a sense of innocence that seemed completely at odds with his strength. Aram winced, for it suddenly occurred to him that he was looking down at himself through the dragon’s eyes.
Was it possible? Was that truly what he looked like?
Yes.
It wasn’t a word, but rather a conviction, and it rolled through his mind with the force of an avalanche. Aram raised his gaze and stared up into the dragon’s mighty face, shocked and profoundly humbled by the revelation. Agaroth seemed to nod slightly, as though in confirmation, and then closed his golden eyes.
Aram felt the dragon’s mind press upon his own. Every emotion he was capable of feeling stirred awake all at once, an overwhelming gush that sent him reeling as his sense of self was yanked away, replaced by a feeling of plurality. He felt the dragon’s soul twine about his own, and a bliss like no other filled him completely. He could feel Agaroth’s great sense of relief as the ache of loneliness lifted from him, the terrible despair he had endured ever since the loss of Daymar Torian.
A vision flitted across Aram’s mind: that of a young man with warm brown skin and a carefree smile that belied the strength of the power that shone within him. He stood at the side of another young man who was tall and physically strong, with an air of noble confidence that was arresting. It took Aram a few moments to understand what was being shown him. This was Agaroth’s memory of Daymar and Esmir, two partners in life and battle, who had loved each other fiercely.
“I’m so sorry,” Aram whispered, his voice shaking with emotion. “I’ll never be like him. But you have my word, I’ll try my best.”
The dragon gave a disapproving growl that needed no translation. Agaroth had no tolerance for self-doubt, a weakness he deemed debilitating.
Aram swallowed, finding himself confronted by one of the most daunting quandaries he had ever faced. All his life, he had known with certainty that there was something wrong with him, something that drove other people away. This concept of worthlessness was the foundation upon which his identity was built. The idea of thinking different in any way rubbed against his every grain. He wasn’t sure he could do it, even for a dragon as mighty and terrifying as the one glaring down at him.
But, for that dragon’s sake, he had to try. So he licked his lips, at last nodding.
He let his gaze roam over his soul-bound companion, slow degrees of awe creeping over him. Agaroth was part of him now, their thoughts and feelings intertwined, and Aram knew that he could no sooner exist without him than he could exist without his heart. For this was what it meant to be dragon-bound. Before, he was but a thin fracture of a soul, and now he was complete.
He stood for a time in the shadow of that powerful gaze, feeling terribly self-conscious, letting Agaroth explore the deepest recesses of his mind and personality. At first, he was afraid that the dragon would take his measure and find him lacking, but that fear was quickly assuaged, as Agaroth would have none of such nonsense. Once again, the mental image appeared in Aram’s mind of a young man blazing with power, and this was paired with the dragon’s memory of Daymar. Aram looked between the two young men and realized how similar they were in appearance, though in strength, he blazed even brighter—he was far more powerful than Daymar.
It was a chilling revelation.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Aram turned to find that Markus had entered the eyrie and was cautiously approaching them. Agaroth did not seem to mind his appearance; in fact, he issued a grunt that sounded like a greeting. Aram felt the dragon’s reactions as though they were his own and sensed Agaroth’s regard for Markus as something along the lines of respect for a colleague.
Markus paused before Agaroth and gave a slight bow, a gesture that seemed to please the great dragon, for his spines lifted slightly and he gave a faint rumble. Markus then turned to Aram and lifted his chin slightly.
“Hey.”
There was no emotion in his voice, which gave Aram pause.
“Hey,” he echoed.
Searching Markus’s face, Aram thought that his friend was angry with him. Though it hurt, he couldn’t blame him. He had acted in a way no friend should ever behave.
“You’re looking better,” Markus said with a guarded expression.
“I feel better.” Aram’s chest tightened as it sank in how terrible of a friend he had been to Markus. At the time, he hadn’t thought about it, or at least not thought it through. A cold fear came over him when he realized how different Markus was acting. Had he gone so far as to damage their relationship?
He thought maybe he had.
Markus nodded once then turned to leave. But before he got to the door, he hesitated and turned back. “You took a hell of a risk without warning me.”
Shame reddened Aram’s cheeks. He bowed his head. “You have every right to be angry with me.”
“Yesterday, I was madder at you than I’ve ever been at anyone except Sergan.”
Aram sucked in his lips, at last nodding. Markus’s words hurt, even though they were deserved. The more Aram thought about it, the angrier he was at himself.
“I hope you can forgive me,” he whispered.
“I will,” Markus said, though something about his tone suggested that his forgiveness would not be immediate. “I’m just going to ask that the next time you want to risk your life on something, you at least talk to me about it first. I’m supposed to be your Warden. I can’t do my job if you keep secrets from me.”
Aram
nodded. “If I’d told you, would you have let me go?”
For a moment, Markus seemed to ponder the question. “Yes,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t have agreed with it, but I wouldn’t have stopped you. You see, I trusted you.”
Aram didn’t miss Markus’s intentional use of ‘trust’ in the past tense. Never before in his life had he felt such depths of shame. He had done things wrong before. Many things. But never had he done anything deliberately hurtful to someone he cared about.
“You have my word,” Aram said. “I’ll never keep anything from you again.”
Markus contemplated him in silence before finally nodding.
When he was gone, Aram dressed then crossed the main chamber to the hearth, finding the embers gray and cold. Looking around, he saw that many of Esmir’s possessions had been removed from the alcove, and he feared that the old man had moved out. His gaze wandered to Agaroth, and he thought he knew the reason why. Nevertheless, it wasn’t right. This had been Esmir’s home for hundreds of years. If only one of them could live here comfortably, then it should be him.
Aram spent the next few minutes gathering up his possessions into a sack as Agaroth watched him with patient curiosity. Glancing at Markus’s belongings made him feel sad; he didn’t suppose Markus would want to move with him. The only thing big he had was the chest that Esmir had given him, where he kept his armor. Aram left it there, figuring he would come back for it later.
“I’m going to let you pick out a new eyrie for us,” he told Agaroth. “Whichever one you like.”
He felt a question form in the dragon’s mind, and he shook his head. “No. Just us, for now.” He frowned, his eyes going toward the terrace, to where Siroth lay basking in the sun. A deep sadness came over him when he thought about how many people he had hurt. Markus, Esmir, Calise, even the dragons… He doubted any of them would want him around for a while.
Gathering his sack of belongings, he fetched up his sword and moved toward the dragon. Agaroth wasn’t wearing a riding harness, and Aram had no idea where he would get one that would fit him, anyway. He was also presented with the problem of how to mount such a large creature. Even lying flat on his belly, Agaroth was taller than a horse.
The red dragon snorted, dismissing his concern. He stalked toward the mouth of the eyrie, where he pressed his head against Siroth’s in greeting. Then, moving into the bright sunlight, he spread his mighty wings.
Aram followed him out onto the terrace, overwhelmed by his dragon’s sheer size and majesty. In the sunlight, Agaroth looked both magnificent and ferocious, easily the most lethal-looking creature Aram had ever seen. He stalked with a predator’s grace, and his wingspan was enormous, extending well beyond the edges of the terrace. His deep red scales reminded Aram of the warning coloration he had seen on many snakes.
The dragon lowered himself to the stone, raking back his wings and raising a leg for Aram to mount. Pulling himself up by the dragon’s soft spines, he took a seat high on Agaroth’s back above his shoulder blades. He dearly missed having a riding harness, and for a moment, he almost lost his nerve.
Before Aram could protest, Agaroth kicked off from the stone. Startled, he scrambled to hold on. For a moment, the dragon hovered over the terrace, and Aram could feel the great muscles of his shoulders rolling beneath him. His pulse thundered and his breath came in gasps as he clung to the dragon’s back with all the strength in his legs.
Agaroth tucked in his wings and plunged down the mountainside.
Aram felt himself lift, and he only kept his seat by gripping the dragon’s body with his legs. He clung to the black spines of Agaroth’s neck as the dragon pulled out of the dive, soaring away from the cliffs and out over the gaping abyss. Cold wind gusted against Aram’s face, making him squint. The dragon’s great wings stretched straight out to either side, parting the air like blades. They glided over the canyon, rocking first one way and then the other, as Agaroth adjusted the direction of their flight. Aram could feel the dragon’s own exhilaration, his vast relief at being made whole again after so many centuries of lonliness and despair.
Behind them, the structures of Skyhome grew small and distant. On a bluff above them was the Henge and its ring of standing stones. The cliffs below were studded with terraces and pockmarked with caves, entrances to the abandoned eyries on the Heights where the Great Ones had once dwelled. Agaroth banked, turning back, his shadow skimming the rooftops of Hearth Home below.
Aram could see people on the streets pointing upward, shielding their eyes against the glare of the sun. It had been four hundred years since the last Greater Dragon had graced the skies above the eyries, and the sight of Agaroth drew people from their homes and businesses. Children ran in packs through the streets, following the path of their flight. Dragons on the terraces scattered, abandoning their perches in screeching droves and flocking from the cliffsides as a Great One swept by.
Agaroth banked, gaining elevation, skimming the tops of the bluffs and passing over the monoliths of the Henge. The dragon’s body rolled slightly, veering toward the wide terrace of an eyrie at the very top of the cliff, even above the level where they had found the dragon cairn. With exquisite grace, Agaroth backstroked to a landing on the wide terrace and there folded his great, black-tipped wings, claiming the eyrie as his own.
Panting with exhilaration, Aram slid from his dragon’s back and ran to the edge of the terrace. There, he stood looking down at the streets of Hearth Home, where hundreds of people had gathered, all looking upward, cheering the return of a Great One to the Heights.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Aram walked to the entrance of the abandoned eyrie and gazed around at their new home. The cavern was dark and full of centuries of dirt and dust, and it stunk of mold and either bird or bat guano. Pieces of rock had crumbled from the ceiling, adding to the debris on the floor. There were a few pieces of furniture in various stages of decay, all covered in a thick layer of fine gray dust: a long trestle table with a bench, the remains of an ancient cupboard or wardrobe, and the frame of a massive four-poster bed, black with wood rot. There were also various items scattered everywhere: tin cups and broken ceramic vessels, a large iron kettle and candle holders, among various odds and ends.
As he walked slowly forward, his feet crunched on brittle twigs and ancient leaves. The eyrie was going to take a lot of work to restore it to a livable space, and Aram figured he’d better start working. He labored the rest of the morning clearing a dragon-sized area, loading piles of debris into pails and throwing them over the edge of the terrace as Agaroth looked on. There was a second chamber adjoining the first with the remains of a smaller bed, the ceiling lower, yet still tall enough for a good-sized dragon. There was a fresh supply of water; the ancient pipes that had once filled the eyrie’s soaking-pool still functioned, though they had been plugged with debris. Once he had cleared the pipes, fresh water once again trickled down the wall into the pool in a thin cascade. It took some time before the water ran clear, and it would take days to fill the entire pool, but at least they had a water supply.
When the time for supper came along, hunger finally pried him from his work. Aram had no wish to go down and dine with the fighting Wing. After his conversation with Markus, he was too ashamed. So, instead, he took the stairs down to Hearth Home, intending to acquire pantry supplies to stock his new home.
Walking through the streets, he got plenty of looks. People moved out of his way, bowing their heads in deference. Aram walked with his gaze lowered, trying his best to be inconspicuous, though it didn’t work, for people noticed him anyway. He wished he had changed into his old clothes, even though Esmir said he shouldn’t wear them anymore. Deep down, he longed for the anonymity he had enjoyed before passing his Trials. He didn’t like the looks in the eyes of the people who recognized him as he passed, looks of trust and faith he hadn’t earned.
He requisitioned wood and supplies at the market, more than he could carry, and arranged for the rest to be delivere
d. The merchants bowed and thanked him profusely, making Aram feel terribly uncomfortable. Turning away from the last stall, he scrubbed his hands over his face, which was coated with a grimy layer of dust. Only then did he looked down at himself and realize how rumpled and filthy his new uniform was.
He hurried back to the eyrie with his bags of supplies, which included two chickens that weren’t happy about being shoved into a sack. Back home, he set the chickens loose with a spread of greens and grain to forage on. He ate as quickly as he could then busied himself with more work, hoping that staying distracted would keep away the feelings of guilt and shame.
By the time sunset cast its shadows over the canyon, he had most of the floor cleared down to the ancient stone, and a good-sized fire was blazing in the hearth for the first time in centuries. He fed the fire with more logs then sat beside it in silent contemplation, feeling more alone than he had in years. When it was time to go to sleep, he realized he’d left his pallet in Esmir’s eyrie, so he simply curled up at his dragon’s side, taking comfort in Agaroth’s soothing warmth.
Over the next couple days, Aram finished cleaning out the eyrie and restocking it with provisions, all the while avoiding as many people as he could. He found some treasures buried within the rotten wardrobe and discovered an iron-shod chest that had been hidden beneath some type of abandoned nest in the corner. One of the things that had been left behind by the eyrie’s previous inhabitants was a riding harness made of ancient leather that was hardened and cracked. This, he gave to one of the leather workers down in Hearth Home and asked her to replicate it so he could have a harness that would fit Agaroth.