A rustle of wings made him jump.
Aron jerked his gaze upward, following the sound. A small flock of white birds streaked past the farm, circled back, then flew onward. Passerines. They must have been set loose from a nearby rectory.
For a moment, Aron imagined the message of the flock moving down from the north, as flock after flock took flight across all the dynasts, all of Eyrie. This flock would have been signaled from Can Rune, town to town, village to village, until even goodfolk who lived in nowhere and nothing could see the sad truth.
“A Mab of Mab has joined the clouds,” he murmured. “Again!” This would be Kestrel, the princess. Now only the hob-prince remained. He made a sign against ill fortune, touching his cheek to ask for the blessings of the Brother.
Wings. It was just wings in the sky. Not travelers on the road, as he feared.
Callused hands … callused hands…
Aron’s breathing gradually slowed to normal again, and he closed his fingers tighter on the muck rake. “Hobbledehoy,” he repeated, silly with relief as he once more turned his attention back to the hog pen. “Hobbledehoy.”
A loud creak answered him—from the road leading up to the farm.
Aron’s joints slackened like broken harness straps.
That creak sounded like a wagon.
Like a wagon moving up the byway.
Aron almost dropped the rake. “Tree branch. Falling rock. Don’t be foolish.”
The creak came again, followed by a clack. Soon he recognized the rhythm of clawfeet, hooves, and wagon wheels laboring up the aged dirt byway. Aron dug his fingers into the rake handle as he made himself look up to see who was coming. Shadowy figures approached the farm through a cloud of dust on the road, as if emerging from some hazy dream.
They were moving at some speed, these travelers.
Aron started to shake. His thoughts raced back to the afternoon before, to the fortress his father drew in the dirt by the barn.
Breached.
And then his father’s voice whispered in his mind. Don’t fear, little one. My children are a wealth I won’t surrender. You will always be my son.
A mule’s bray brought Aron back to the present, to the sight of the sun, still blazing blue and hanging stubbornly high in the sky. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Tried to breathe. Tried to hold himself still. No amount of denial could shade the truth at hand.
The Stone Guild had come to nowhere, ridden far into nothing, to collect their due.
Two Brothers in telltale gray robes, armed with broadswords crossed behind their backs with hilts showing over their shoulders, rode leather-skinned talons with eyes like orange-red flame. Behind the winged lizards rattled two mule-drawn carts hooked together back to front. A boy of perhaps twelve years with the yellow-haired, haughty look of a northern dynast sat astride the front wagon’s driving board, guiding four pulling mules. He had no broadsword, but wore a long dagger belted at his waist. His garb was simpler, too, gray breeches and a gray tunic, and he steered the mules with a deft touch. His wagon protested and swayed under its weight of hides, barrels, and crates, while the one tethered behind it looked empty. Behind the empty wagon, a breeding pair of goats struggled against a stout chain.
Mouth dry, breath scraping painfully against his throat, Aron squinted into the light of the blue-white sun. He gripped his rake, desperately trying to go through the Veil even though he knew he’d never reach that calmness now. The Stone Guild would Harvest him.
He was the youngest male, and the Brothers preferred young boys for training. He was also the fairest of feature, with the light brown hair, thin build, and sapphire eyes the color of Eyrie’s sun, said to come from the old blood, the first mixings, before the Fae had tried to join their legacies with the shape-shifting races. His cheville, the band of lodestone fastened about the left ankle of every citizen of Eyrie with a trace of the old Fae bloodlines, was the same rare, glittering sapphire as the sun and Aron’s eyes. He glanced down at his ankle, which was so coated with mud that he might as well have been wearing a cheville made of rock glass. No matter. The Brailing cheville would not save him now.
By law and right, the guild could select one of his elder brothers or even his baby sisters. Stone Sisters were rare, but rumored to be the most deadly of all the trained assassins. As long as a child was too old for mother’s milk and too young to start Guard service or be pledged to trade or marriage, he—or she—could be taken from any family, Fae or goodfolk, blessed with more than five healthy heirs. Only one child could be chosen, so no family paid more than any other, but Aron’s father always said the price was steep indeed.
Harvest was Eyrie’s oldest tradition.
To Stone go the Stones.
Aron knew he should leave the pen and call out to his parents, but his voice deserted him. The hogs, crazed by the approach of the long-clawed, heavy-jawed talons, began to grunt and squeal. In response, one of the talons let loose a skin-flaying shriek.
From the small barn behind Aron, his own small talon, Tek, gave an answering squeak.
One of the big talons screeched again, the sharp note of male noting female.
Aron threw down the muck rake and scrambled out of the hog pen just as his mother and sisters came running into the yard from the back field. A few seconds later, his brothers spilled into view from all directions. Some carried harriers and hoes. Seth wielded a scythe, though Aron couldn’t imagine what he would be doing with a clearing blade. It was too early to take down the stalks and vines.
The hogs screamed and screamed. Aron’s skin crawled at the sound, and at the sight of his brother and the blade.
Does Seth mean to fight them?
Guilda i’Guild. By the Code, the guild could take its due. To lay hands on a Harvesting Stone Brother would bring down the wrath of the assassins, not to mention the force of the dynast Fae.
“Seth.” Aron’s father arrived from the fields and hurried to his eldest son. “Be still!”
His command hammered through the noise of the rampaging hogs. Wolf still carried the harness straps he had been oiling, and for a moment, Aron feared his father would strike Seth across the back of his head.
Instead, Seth wheeled to face his father, blade raised. His hands shook as he stood for a second, then two, then three. His shoulders twitched as his father glowered at him.
“This family follows the law,” Wolf said in firm tones. “We’re Brailings of Brailing, and there will be no oathbreakers under my roof. Hold up your head and put aside that weapon.”
Seth seemed to struggle against unseen hands, then dropped the scythe to the ground. He swore, leaped to pick up the blade, swore again, and abandoned it where it lay. When he turned back to Aron, Seth’s dark eyes had gone cold.
The other five boys lined up beside Seth, leaving space for Aron between the last and the two small girls. Beside the girls, Aron’s mother buried her face in her field apron. The dirt on her hands turned slowly dark with her tears. Wolf dropped his straps and joined his wife, looking anguished and furious all at once.
Unable to swallow, Aron took his place in line. The hogs railed, and their terror knifed into his belly.
The Stone Brothers came to a halt in the yard. Both men dismounted, leaving the talon leads, mules, and wagons in the care of the boy.
Foolish. Aron frowned. If the talons took a mind to fight or fly, they would slaughter the boy and likely the mules, too. Then the beasts would be at his hogs before anyone could stop them.
One Brother walked to the hog pen, quieting the stricken animals with clucks and soft words. The other Brother strode straight toward Wolf. The hilts of his broadswords jutted up from behind the man’s shoulders. Aron could imagine the sharp, jagged blades crossed over the man’s back, though he hadn’t yet seen them. He also couldn’t see any daggers, but if he had learned correctly from his father, the man would have knives concealed all over his person.
A Stone Brother fights like a porcupine in close combat. The Judged
often try to win their way free, but it’s damnable hard to account for all those slashing quills.
The approaching Stone Brother carried a simple hammered leather bag, bleached as gray as his cheville and his finely woven garments. Aron eyed the ankle band and the robes. His father said many goodfolk believed the gray cloth and cheville changed colors to allow the wearer to fade into the background, but Aron saw no indication of this. Perhaps it took a bit of legacy to notice the change, but even the great houses had weak legacies now, and Brailing the weakest of all. Each of Aron’s cousins were Quiet, even those closest to the dynast seat. Perhaps his mother was correct. Their blood wouldn’t speak, and they would all be spared from Harvest.
The Stone Brother reached Wolf, and when he pushed back his cowl to greet the family properly, Aron sucked in a sharp breath. The man had the unnaturally white hair and skin common only to Dyn Vagrat—a Stone Brother colored as if he came from Thorn—and eyes as green as wet summer grass!
Aron had no idea that such a thing was possible. He couldn’t imagine the Stone Brothers Harvesting from Dyn Vagrat, from the dynast that housed the Thorn Guild. Did Thorn even allow such a thing?
And those eyes…
Loud eyes, the rectors would have called them. Colored eyes suggested a strong dose of Fae blood. People with colored eyes—shades other than black or brown—especially those closer to the recognized ruling lines, often had legacies, or traces of the old talents once coveted and cultivated by dynast lords. Aron’s own loud blue eyes had proved no true indicator of mind-talent, but that green … no doubt this Stone Brother had a legacy, maybe even a strong dose of the Vagrat ability to heal the wounded. Why was he not in the service of some dynast lord?
Centered on the Brother’s pale forehead was a three-sided black spiral. The same marks had been carved under both of his eyes. Aron knew from his father’s teachings that those three tattoos signified very high rank in the Stone Guild.
Aron’s father blinked several times. The Stone Brother’s rank in society was far higher than Wolf Brailing of Brailing, even though his family carried a dynast name. After a few seconds, Wolf gave a grudging, shallow bow, acting first since he was of lesser status.
“Greetings.” The Stone Brother gave a polite bow in return. “Forgive the lateness of our arrival, but we have been long on the road and one of our wagons was beset with troublesome spokes and a broken bolt.”
Silence was Wolf’s only answer.
Aron puzzled at this. The proper thing would have been to offer drink, food, aid, even lodging for a traveler—especially one claiming distress in his journey. In Brailing, traveler courtesies were strictly observed upon penalty of dishonor, disfavor of the dynast lord, even retribution from a traveler’s kin.
The Stone Brother, however, offered no expression of surprise or anger at the slight. Instead he smiled and took his gray leather bag off of his shoulder. “It would be best if we made haste to get back on our way. I am Dunstan, called Dunstan Stormbreaker by my Brothers, and I have come to Harvest. Male or female, it makes no matter to me so long as the blood speaks.”
Wolf grabbed his wife’s hand before she could slap the Stone Brother. Aron saw her blazing red cheeks and figured her to be angry at the thought of surrendering a daughter to three males. Though Brailing folk were less obsessed with honor and virtue than many of the dynasts, safety was safety, and women tended to keep the company of women for that reason if no other.
“Dunstan,” Wolf said. “I once met a boy called Dunstan, during my Guard days. He and his sister were in some need—and his hair was the same straw white as your own.”
“Dunstan is a common name,” Stormbreaker said as if to dismiss the possibility that he had been that boy, and turned his attention to the children.
Aron looked away before the Stone Brother could meet his eyes.
“You would Harvest a child from a family carrying the dynast name?” Aron’s father asked with the same grudging courtesy he had demonstrated with his earlier bow.
“With leave from Lord Helmet, Brailing of Brailing, I would,” Stormbreaker replied with no trace of tension or annoyance, though his tone seemed pressed. “Since the Brailing bloodline was kind enough to donate the land where our stronghold was constructed, we Harvest from this dynast only one year in every six, and we never take from dynast lines without the dynast leader’s permission, and usually special circumstance, like needing to select a child who will enjoy privilege of rank. In this case, the child I claim will be my first apprentice, and thus one day will share my status in the guild, and in Eyrie.” He smiled as he glanced around the farm. “Perhaps a status greater than he or she already enjoys.”
Wolf’s face flushed a dark, dangerous red. “Do your business, Stormbreaker,” he said through clenched teeth.
The second Stone Brother arrived from his calming work at the hog pen. He introduced himself as Osfred, called Osfred Windblown.
Hardly a fearsome name despite the broadswords and his other hidden quills, Aron realized. The man seemed slightly unfit, with paunch and soft arms, and he bore no marks of rank. Were it not for the sword hilts showing behind his shoulders and the gray robes and cheville of his killer’s trade, Aron might have taken him for a gentle shepherd or a village baker.
Wasting no time, Osfred Windblown and Dunstan Stormbreaker took carved-bone chalices from their gray bags. They emptied a small vial of amber liquid into the chalices, then removed slender daggers from their sleeves. Windblown approached Seth, who scowled and thrust out his arm as the Brother’s cutting blade flashed in the meager sunlight. Aron’s youngest sister Helga cried out as Stormbreaker’s blade bit into her flesh on the soft side of her wrist. Then, in typical Brailing fashion, Helga tried to kick the man who hurt her.
“Be easy, easy there.” Stormbreaker’s voice made a chant as he held her firm and let her wrist bleed into the chalice. “The pain will pass. All pain passes in the end.”
“Rock cat,” Helga hissed. “Mocker piss!”
“Hush,” Wolf whispered, and that fast, the first two were tested. The bone cups both gave off thin gray smoke.
Aron felt his stomach sink. The Brailing blood was speaking, at least a bit.
“Hardly impressive,” Windblown noted, passing a finger through the feeble mist rising from his chalice. The broadswords on his back gave a rattle as he dumped his cup and wiped it with a cloth.
The rank-marked Stone Brother didn’t respond. He simply dumped his own cup, extracted a cloth, wiped his chalice clean, and emptied another vial of the amber liquid into the bowl. Windblown moved to the next brother as Stormbreaker moved to Aron’s other sister, Freda.
She grabbed for Aron’s hand and he let her grip his fingers. Stormbreaker reached out for Freda just in time to meet Aron eye to eye.
A stillness overtook the man.
Aron’s cool fear mingled with a fierce wish to protect his sister from Harvest. He would not be spineless. He would honor his father by doing his duty as an older brother, and by following the law without flinching. He released Freda’s hand and stood fast as the Stone Brother appraised him.
Fine.
Let them test him first, and perhaps spare her the pain.
“Another weak response,” Windblown muttered about one of Aron’s brothers, then fell as silent as Stormbreaker.
Aron’s jaw clenched. He would not be cowed by this mocker piss and his pale skin and his branded face. Aron was a Brailing of Brailing with a sapphire cheville and distant claims to the dynast seat. He was an animal-handler and already a competent worker of the land, with a promised apprenticeship in livestock, by the Brother’s grace. Strong mind, strong stock. The Stone Guild could eat dirt and die, for all he cared.
Dunstan Stormbreaker let go of Freda without cutting her. He did not open the lock of his gaze as he extended his hand. His sleeve fell back, revealing rows of dav’ha marks to rival those on Wolf Brailing’s arms.
So be it. Aron wanted to snarl the words aloud, but he he
ld his peace. Heat built in his gut and flowed up through his neck and cheeks. He felt himself turning red, felt his life catching fire and burning away to nothing, and Aron Brailing thrust out his wrist for cutting.
CHAPTER FOUR
ARON
Stormbreaker grabbed Aron’s wrist and held it.
Aron felt an odd pressure on his mind, but he kept his face as flat and smooth as his father’s.
“Are you Quiet?” Stormbreaker asked in that low, hypnotic voice. “You are most certainly composed. You give me neither fear nor anger. Do you think that means you’re strong?”
No power in Eyrie could have compelled Aron to answer.
From the barn, Tek mewled with concern. The little talon always seemed to know when Aron felt unsettled.
The sound brought Stormbreaker’s head around. He glanced at the barn, then back to Aron. “I thought I heard a talon when we approached. Tell me, how did a family such as yours come to possess such a costly animal—and a female at that?”
“She escaped the dynast herd,” Wolf said. “My sons and I were hunting in the Scry, and Aron found her injured and dying. He made a pulley to lift her free. She would take food from none other after that, and our Lord Brailing made her a gift to Aron.”
“She’s but a runt,” Aron’s mother cut in. “Her claws are too small for battle and her wings too weak to lift her for a fighting jump.”
Stormbreaker kept Aron’s wrist tight in his fingers. “Any female may breed.”
“And any male may break an egg,” Aron’s mother fired back. “The talon is weak. So is this boy. Aron weighs less than my daughters and he has no man’s bulk to his frame. He hardly eats. He—”
“I like the name Aron.” Stormbreaker smiled at Aron. “It’s powerful. Honest. Aron with eyes like the sapphire sun, and you’re the one who found Lord Brailing’s talon. You’re a quick thinker with a talent for animal-handling. Good. Weight, height—such things matter little to Stone. We have room for many sizes and shapes.”
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