A Prince Among Killers

by S. R. Vaught; J. B. Redmond

  Platt opened his arms. “Exactly.”

  “Then choosing when to wield it and when to lay it aside for the good of my canvas or clay, or for the benefit of my fields, that would be my prerogative?”

  Platt’s only response was an irritated shrug at Aron, and a baring of his teeth in obvious disgust for Fae prohibitions against dangerous graal. Since Aron couldn’t understand all of that, or defend it well himself, he changed the subject with, “The manes and mockers, even the wild beasts of the Barrens and Outlands fear you.”

  “Of course.” Platt’s posture remained tense. “No beast or spirit, no matter what the form or deformity, will stand against a Stregan’s wishes when we are not concealing the truth of our essence.”

  Aron felt a wash of surprise, even though he had suspected as much. “If you can command wild animals and mockers and manes, why do you not march into this terrible war and put an end to it? Why do Stregans hide at all?”

  Platt’s frown renewed Aron’s fears for his own life, and he had to work not to move away from the man as Platt lowered his arms. “Involvement in Fae wars and affairs cost my people most of our population, and wiped out entire Fury races.”

  Aron’s heart beat faster and faster, and he couldn’t help a flash of guilt over what his people had done to Dari’s people during the mixing disasters. The Fae had feared and turned on their more powerful though peace-loving neighbors. In a coordinated effort in every dynast save for Dyn Ross, the Fae drugged Furies at feasts and celebrations, then massacred them as they slept—much as Lord Brailing wiped out his own dynast subjects along the Watchline.

  “Those betrayals were horrible.” Aron said. “But they are a long time past. The perpetrators have been dead for generations. This war, it’s not ancient history. It’s happening now, and it’s killing that could be stopped.”

  Platt seemed to consider his argument, maybe even how ending the war would help Dari and Kate. But after a time, he shook his head. “No, Aron Weylyn. The mixing disasters were not so long that we have forgotten the lessons. Only death comes from mingling with the Fae. Your people crave power and value ambition over life itself, and Stregans want no part of your society—or what is left of it.”

  Frustration struck inside Aron’s belly like an angry mocker-snake, but he controlled his reaction and didn’t give in to the wave of hopelessness for Eyrie, and for Dari’s quest to find her sister. His thoughts moved immediately to people like Galvin Herder and Lord Brailing, and he sighed. “People in power can’t imagine people who don’t want it.”

  Platt once more inclined his head, accepting Aron’s observation, and his mood shifted again. More peaceful now. Contemplative and focused. “My people will not act against our beliefs with respect to war again.”

  Aron held the man’s gaze, staring deep into Platt’s black eyes. “I understand.”

  “You do. I see that.” Platt didn’t blink, and Aron felt the touch of Platt’s graal—though he couldn’t really call it that. It was more like being seized by unimaginably powerful hands and squeezed until his knees shook and his breath came short. He had been sized up and evaluated in an instant, every aspect of his body, being, and character. Of that, he had no doubt.

  Platt seemed to debate with himself a moment, then come to a decision. His formidable mind-talents released Aron, who wavered a moment before regaining a firm stance and keeping eye contact with the Stregan king.

  “I came here to save you, Aron.” Platt watched Aron’s reaction carefully, and Aron knew he must be seeing Aron’s surprise, and his disbelief.

  The Stregan king’s assertion didn’t seem possible, or real. Why would a king—especially this king—deign to intervene in the fate of one boy, only an apprentice—and in a guild that practiced arts abhorred by the Furies?

  Aron shook his head before he realized what he was doing, unable to accept what Platt was saying.

  Platt gestured to Aron. “Do not measure your worth by your role in Fae society. That is of no consequence to me, or to my people. Iko came to me and asked me to see to your safety because you are important to Dari, and to Iko, because of his personal pledges to his god.”

  When Aron couldn’t respond, Platt added, “A request from a friend to save a life. That’s reason enough for me to act. Does that surprise you?”

  “Yes,” Aron whispered, still numb with shock. Platt was telling him the truth, but perhaps not the full truth. There was more to the king’s motives, and Aron’s graal told him it had something to do with Iko’s beliefs, which were similar to Zed’s. Old ways. Old beliefs.

  Zed had told Aron that in desperate times, fate watches, fate circles, then dives like a hungry hawk, striking people who will be important to Eyrie. Aron had ridiculed him for such a thought. Now, though, here above the mists of the Deadlands, the sands of the Barrens, and the rocks and pits of the Outlands—here in the Ruined Keep of Triune, staring into the liquid-coal eyes of the king of the Stregans, who had journeyed from the safety of his own stronghold just to rescue one boy—Aron believed for the first time that he might have some unusual destiny.

  Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, because he didn’t know how to figure out what great task he needed to accomplish. How could he know that? How could he shed the anger and grief that he had only just realized held him back from his potential and made him less useful to his chosen family of Stone, and discover what task had been set for him by fate itself?

  “You do not have the heart and soul of an assassin, Aron Weylyn,” Platt murmured, once more studying Aron like an undecipherable scroll.

  Aron didn’t know whether that was a compliment or an insult, but given the beliefs Platt professed, he decided on the former.

  “Do I have the heart and soul of an oathbreaker?” The question left Aron before he had a chance to consider whether or not he wanted to hear the answer.

  “You do not have the heart and soul of an oathbreaker,” Platt said, sounding certain. “You would follow your promises to your own peril, as you’ve already demonstrated.”

  “Then I must learn to be a killer, because I’m an assassin’s apprentice.” Aron heard the same heaviness in his voice, and felt it, like chains forming in his chest, tugging his heart downward, toward his toes. “I’m of Stone now, just as surely as you’re a Stregan.”

  “What you must transform is here.” Platt tapped the side of his head. “Strengthen and protect your will, your essence, your intelligence. You have one of the powerful old mind-talents of Eyrie. Through you, and through those like you, the Fae might regain some of what they destroyed.”

  Aron blinked at the Stregan king. “You would be happy about that?”

  Platt’s formidable countenance softened, and for a moment, Aron saw a glimmer of the compassion and depth of emotion that drew him to Dari. “Fae and Fury were once as close as Dari and her twin, Aron.” The man’s voice was softer, too, and Aron caught another echo of Dari, her vulnerability when she showed the truth of her emotions. “Without one another, we are none of us complete.”

  Aron stood in silence for a time, absorbing Platt’s admission and the sight of the man’s sorrow and hopelessness, that such healing and reunion could ever occur. Aron had no such hopelessness. In that moment, he could imagine an Eyrie once more made whole, with all its peoples and all its powers as they once were. Unbroken by disasters. Repaired from wars and senseless killings. His back itched between his shoulders, where wings might have grown, when Fae could still fly. His mind itched just as fiercely, as if eager to use its talents and powers, freely and unfettered, and without fear of doing harm. He was so absorbed by sensations and visions of potential that he barely understood that Platt was speaking, and beginning to move away from him.

  “You may mention my visit to Lord Baldric, Stormbreaker, and Dari,” Platt said as he once more approached the open window arches. “Otherwise, be cautious about who you take into your counsel. I will trust your discretion, but I advise you not to disappoint me.”

&nb
sp; Platt leaped onto the nearest decrepit stone sill, and the stones beneath it gave way.

  Aron yelped with concern, but Platt was gone before the first rock struck the floor.

  Aron heard a rush of wings, saw the stirring of the fog below the windows, and he knew the Stregan king had shifted to his winged form.

  By now, Platt might be halfway to Eyrie’s blue-white sun.

  It took Aron many long minutes to come back to himself completely, and that heavy feeling Platt’s words had given him didn’t retreat. It kept him calm when he made his way to the granary and woke Galvin, who immediately demanded to know how they reached the Ruined Keep.

  “It’s not clear to me,” Aron said, which was truthful, if incomplete. “You must have driven the Roc away, and perhaps the Roc frightened other predators.”

  Galvin scrubbed a hand across his face as he glanced around the chamber full of grain sacks. “You didn’t finish that battle and carry me all this way.”

  “No,” Aron admitted. “I don’t think I did.”

  Galvin let out a frustrated growl and came close to Aron, standing over him.

  Aron felt no fear at all, not after his encounter with the king of the Stregans. He felt only weariness as Galvin glared down at him.

  “You’re weak,” Galvin said, clearly flustered by Aron’s refusal to argue or explain any further. “If I had been the one to keep my wits in that battle, I would have killed you.”

  Aron met the older boy’s gaze without effort, seeing fear and confusion where he once read only coldness and cruelty. “I’m an assassin’s apprentice, not an oathbreaker. No matter what you say, I think the same is true for you.”

  Galvin’s mouth hung open, then snapped closed. “I am an apprentice, an apprentice who’s saddled with the likes of you,” he said with his jaw clenched. “All of Stone must bear the burden of you, most of all those of us in the Den. Where’s the justice in that?”

  “I didn’t choose to be here,” Aron said, hoping that would appease Galvin so they could move on with their duties, eat, rest for the night, and return to Triune on the morning.

  “I did choose to be at Stone,” Galvin countered, his entire body going stiff with his rising anger. “And you may expect to fight me every day. You’ll improve, or you’ll die.”

  Aron considered the older boy’s words, and he heard in them an odd sort of bargain. It was a deal he thought he could make, so he assented with a nod. “Agreed. I’ll improve, or I’ll die by your hand, and without complaint.”

  Once more, Galvin’s mouth came open, but this time, he didn’t bother to close it right away. He stared at Aron and fumed for a time, then seemed to realize that Aron would not argue with him, no matter what threat he employed. He also seemed to grasp that the mystery of the battle and the end of their trek to the Ruined Keep might reflect as poorly on him as on Aron, so he let the matter drop.

  They went about checking and inventorying supplies as instructed, then made dinner of boiled corn and dried meat in the Keep’s small kitchen. The night passed without incident, and at sunrise, they made the long journey back to Triune in absolute silence. The mists kept their distance, and they didn’t hear so much as a whisper or growl from any predator. Galvin kept looking from left to right in wonder. Occasionally, he glanced at Aron, and Aron knew the older boy understood that their safety was somehow tied to Aron’s presence.

  Aron was relatively certain that Platt was somewhere nearby, or that the Stregan king had somehow instructed manes and mockers and the beasts of the land to give them wide passage. Still, he was more than relieved to see the gray stone walls of Triune looming ahead of them.

  As they reached the castle’s entrance, the wooden gates that had sealed them from safety swung wide to reveal Stormbreaker, Dari, Lord Baldric, Windblown, Zed, Iko, and Blath standing side by side in a straight line like a welcoming contingent. Something about their stoop-shouldered postures and ruffled appearances made Aron wonder if they had slept, or if they had kept vigil in those very positions the entire day before, the long night, and today as well. He made a point of not looking too closely at Iko, lest he react in some way that might make the others suspicious about what took place at the Ruined Keep.

  Aron crossed through the archway back into Triune beside Galvin with a sense of returning home, to the place he most belonged, to the closest thing he would ever again have to a family. Dari, Blath, Zed, and Iko let their relief show on their faces. Windblown had a blank expression, and Stormbreaker seemed both miserable and elated, perhaps guilty for setting Aron such a task.

  Lord Baldric looked unusually kind and jovial as he opened both arms and boomed, “Welcome. I—er—trust you checked the supplies?”

  Aron quickly gave his memorized report, detailing the status of weapons, food, and water, and he noted that he and Galvin repaired two of the lower Keep doors to better deny entry to scavengers.

  “Excellent,” Lord Baldric said, then turned his attention to Galvin Herder. “And what report do you bring me? Should we keep this boy, or send him to judgment?”

  Aron’s pulse stilled as he turned his head to stare at Galvin. He hadn’t considered that Galvin would have been charged with observing him, and carrying information back to the Lord Provost and likely to Stormbreaker as well. He certainly hadn’t considered that Galvin would be given any voice in Lord Baldric’s decisions about Aron remaining at Triune.

  Galvin’s expression remained angry and distant, as it had since he woke in the Ruined Keep. For the moment, he remained sullen, but when he did begin to speak, Aron fully expected some sort of indictment, perhaps even accusations that he had used his graal to get them safely to their destination, or return them to Triune without attack.

  Aron couldn’t make himself breathe. He knew panic again, hard and desperate, charging through every muscle and vein, and it was all he could do not to start shaking, or explode, or swing his fists at Lord Baldric.

  This wasn’t fair. After everything he had been through since Harvest, not to mention the last day, how could his status at Stone come down to the opinion of one boy who despised him?

  Heat flowed through Aron’s body like a red, burning wave.

  Galvin’s expression turned even darker, and he cleared his throat. “Aron Weylyn does not need his legacy to fight. He will be better served to work on close combat or far-distant attack. Middle-range weapons are not his strength.”

  Aron’s thoughts crackled between his temples as Galvin’s report sank into his consciousness. He heard Dari’s intake of breath as Zed and Iko grumbled to themselves. Windblown and Blath offered no reactions.

  “Thank you,” Stormbreaker said to Galvin. “Your assessment closely matches mine. Very few can be master of all methods of fighting. With your leave, Lord Baldric, I believe both apprentices should go to the infirmary for a check from the healers.”

  Lord Baldric grunted his assent, and Galvin Herder walked away in the direction of the infirmary building.

  Aron found he couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate. He stared after the older boy, watching him stride toward Triune’s main byway, but he remained paralyzed by a mixture of anger and relief and surprise, and complete confusion.

  Blath, Windblown, and Zed took their leave, while Dari, Iko, and Stormbreaker remained close. Dari looked as angry as Aron felt.

  “How was it right to give that boy any voice in Aron’s fate?” she asked, her tone conveying the full measure of her scorn for that action.

  Aron expected a rebuke from Stormbreaker or a brutal retort from Lord Baldric, but Stormbreaker remained silent. The Lord Provost spoke to Dari as a teacher would address a student. “At Stone, our fate always depends upon the cooperation and support of our fellow guild members.” He gestured to the massive battlements surrounding them. “As you well know, and you’ll hear often at Triune, we have no friends outside these walls. We must forge our alliances within them.”

  Dari looked like she wanted to debate the point, but Lord Baldric held up o
ne hand. “If Galvin had spoken against Aron, it would not have sealed Aron’s fate. It would have sealed mine.”

  Lord Baldric lowered his hand and turned his gaze to Aron. For once his brown eyes seemed absolutely gentle, and as his bald head gleamed in the afternoon light, Aron thought he saw the man’s eyes glisten with a hint of tears. “I would have had a choice to make, a choice that would leave me wounded and Stone weaker by one strong fighter. Fortunately, it did not come to that. Both apprentices have exceeded my expectations, and earned some leeway—however small—in my esteem.”

  So why did Aron not feel light and carefree?

  Aron lifted his hands and pressed them against his chest, as if he might actually touch the heaviness that pressed so fiercely on his insides.

  “Infirmary, Aron,” Stormbreaker said, patting Aron’s shoulder. “Have a good meal, then return to me for training.”

  “Yes, Master Stormbreaker.” Aron’s response was automatic, but his eyes had moved to Dari.

  She gave him an impatient, almost irritated frown as she often did when he was misbehaving in graal lessons. The expression saddened Aron and increased the weight inside him as he realized he likely had not shown her sufficient gratitude or respect.

  “When you have a moment, I would speak with you,” he said, hearing that strange deepening in his voice that he had noticed after surviving Platt’s scrutiny in the Ruined Keep.

  Dari’s eyebrows pulled together, and Aron felt the touch of her graal.

  He didn’t resist her, even when the touch deepened to an outright exploration. The irritation left her face, replaced by worry, relief, and something like grudging affection.

  He left for the infirmary without waiting for her response.

  She would catch up to him, and he would tell her about his visit with Platt. Then he would explain the encounter to Stormbreaker and Lord Baldric, and return to his training at Stone.

  “Thank you,” he said to Iko, who was following behind him at a reasonable distance.