Galvin Herder was dead.
The news simply wouldn’t sink from his mind to his heart, and when it did, Aron fought to understand his own sudden grief and horror. Galvin had always been a trial in his own fashion, a daily struggle for Aron. Aron had always figured that defeating Galvin more regularly, or finding some way to make a true peace with him, would be part of what let Aron know that he, himself, might be ready for his own trial—and now Herder was… gone.
Just gone.
It was a strange sensation, as if a bit of his own identity had been stripped completely away, leaving him less than he had been only moments before.
Aron shook his head again, trying to deny his own confusion.
This was his enemy Zed was talking about, a boy who had had pounded on him and worked to humiliate him since the very night he arrived at the stronghold—but Aron couldn’t help remembering the report Galvin gave to Lord Baldric upon their return from the Ruined Keep.
A shadow fell across Aron’s path, but he didn’t react, recognizing the presence of Iko, which had become as familiar as the companionship of a brother. The Sabor came to a stop beside him, crossed his arms over his chest, and kept a wary eye on the Shrine of the Mother in the distance.
“How did it happen?” Aron asked, hearing the catch in his voice.
Zed frowned and gazed off to the west, as if he could see through Triune’s thick stone curtain, all the way to the Ruined Keep where Galvin died. “Might have been rock cats or Rocs on a night hunt. Or mockers. It wasn’t manes. There was too much blood, according to Dari. Manes would have taken the blood for themselves.”
That image disturbed Aron. He tried not to allow his mind to see it, but he couldn’t help imagining Galvin’s bloody remains scattered across the cracked stone floor of the Ruined Keep.
“He died fighting.” Raaf caught Aron’s hand in his much smaller fingers. “That’s something, at least? That’s something, right?”
Aron gazed down at the boy and had an urge to rip off the gray tunic and breeches that marked Raaf as a Stone apprentice. He would have, if it would have made a difference in whether or not Raaf ever subjected himself to such a lethal test of his abilities. His next urge was to stride down to the main gate and keep, find High Master Falconer, and punch the man right in the face for forcing Raaf to choose between Thorn and Stone long before the boy should have been pushed into any such decision. Maybe he would strike Lord Baldric, too, for not being more forceful with Thorn, and for allowing these idiotic trials to begin with.
“What kind of foolish tradition is this?” Aron pulled free of Raaf, then rubbed his own back with both hands. “Why should anyone who makes it through Stone training have to go through something like that?”
“To bind us together.” Zed was still staring in the direction of the Ruined Keep. Above them, the sky grew evermore blue and bright on the cloudless fall morning, perfect in all ways but for the fact they were discussing the death of a Stone apprentice. “That’s what Windblown told me. Surviving the trial is a shared experience, and proof that we’re ready to be part of the guild.”
Even though he knew it was one of the few forbidden questions at Stone, Aron asked, “But what really happens? Does Stone just set a person adrift in that broken-down tower and put out a call to all the monsters in the Barrens, the Outlands, and the Deadfall?”
Zed shrugged, but the gesture was anything but casual or relaxed. Raaf stared at his feet, and Iko remained on guard, gazing at the Shrine of the Mother.
For a moment, Aron did the same.
Once more, he experienced no strange unease, and saw no odd collections of lighting over either Endurance House or the Shrine.
Had he been truly afraid of those places? They seemed so peaceful now, in the face of such a tragedy. Why had he maintained such senseless fears instead of confronting them more directly?
Aron became aware of his own clenched fists, but he couldn’t make himself relax. Galvin was dead now. He was dead like Aron’s family, and so many others, and for what? For some ideal of what makes a guild, or true companions?
Aron wanted to demand answers from Windblown, and Lord Baldric, too. Maybe even Stormbreaker—and because it’s always been that way simply would not be a good enough reason.
“Where is Stormbreaker?” he asked Zed, his wrists and fingers beginning to throb along with the rest of his muscles.
“Last I saw him, he was near the main keep.” Zed pointed south, and a little to the east. “He was walking with Lady Vagrat and her heir.”
Aron nodded to Zed and Raaf. “I would have a word with him, then. Alone. I’ll find the two of you later, in time for riding practice. Raaf, if you would saddle Tek for me, it would be a great help.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ARON
As Zed and Raaf peeled away from him, heading toward the Den, Aron set out for the crop barn and fields, walking as fast as his exhausted, weak legs would allow, with Iko following quietly behind. He almost wished he still had buckets of rocks to carry, but he had abandoned that habit once he began to get his man’s bulk. His stomach ached miserably from hunger, but he overrode the pain, just as he had most of the night, as he battled to increase his stamina and maintain his attention.
He intended to find Stormbreaker and get his answers about the trial, and what now felt like a completely senseless waste of life.
Galvin might have been a perfect mocker-ass, but he was a man in his own right, and did not deserve being torn apart by vicious monsters and beasts while his entire guild stood by, wishing him well but doing nothing to come to his aid. Soon it would be Aron suffering that fate. Or Zed. And one day, Raaf, if Aron didn’t put a stop to this.
He passed by the mock battlefield, scarcely taking note of the apprentices hard at work in the crisp morning air. The Judgment Arena also passed by in a blur, as did the groups of Stone Brothers and apprentices along the main byway. When he came to the back of the main keep, he turned east toward the fields, and headed toward the footbridge that would take him toward the farming quarters. He expected to find Stormbreaker in one of the towers near the fields, seeing to the needs of Stone’s latest guest.
What he found instead was Dari, standing on the footbridge near the Temple of the Brother, with Blath at her side. Dari’s hands gripped the bridge railing, and it was obvious to Aron that she was weeping as she stared into the newly harvested fields.
A new rush of emotions flooded through Aron, these more focused and much less confusing. All of his other aims evaporated as he hurried toward her, intending to gather her to him and offer whatever comfort she might need. He would determine what had wounded her, and put a stop to that, too. Whatever it was.
As he reached the bridge, Blath stepped forward to block his path, shook her head with an expression that let him know she would prevent any intrusion in this vulnerable moment. Aron glared at the Sabor woman, then looked past her to Dari. He followed her gaze, until he came to what she was staring at, until he absorbed the obvious source of her pain.
It was Stormbreaker, standing beside a tall, ethereal woman with silvery hair and skin even fairer than his. Though he was at some distance, Aron could make out the woman’s bright, silvery eyes as well. She seemed wispy, almost insubstantial, and if he had seen her stepping from some mist or fog, he might have mistaken her for a spirit or apparition.
His first thought was that he might be seeing Tia Snakekiller at last, Stormbreaker’s sister, but this was not the woman Aron remembered from his brief legacy-guided view of her. And Stormbreaker’s manner was not that of a man holding conversation with his sibling. The deferential dip of his head, the gentle fashion in which he gestured, or extended his hand to brush the woman’s arm—no. This was certainly not his sister.
This had to be Lady Vagrat, Rakel Seadaughter, descendant of Eyrie’s most mysterious and reclusive dynast line.
Lady Vagrat and Stormbreaker were standing at the edge of a harvested cornfield, seemingly enveloped in sad
ness, but watching a little girl of perhaps five or six years of age frolicking through the remnants of broken stalks. The child had her mother’s fair skin, but her hair was white and not silver, and her build seemed more muscled and solid than her mother’s.
This would be Rakel Seadaughter’s heir. A girl who would never marry, but one day would bear heirs of her own, by a male of her own choosing, who would never be named.
Brotherless…
The word floated through Aron’s mind, spoken in his mother’s voice, but he rejected it. It wasn’t for him or anyone else to judge. Vagrat’s ways and beliefs were Vagrat’s ways and beliefs.
As were Stone’s.
Aron narrowed his eyes as he thought about Galvin Herder and the dangerous trial in the Ruined Keep. Should he simply accept such a thing, because he was Stone now, and Stone had rights to their own traditions and beliefs?
And should he simply accept that once more, Stormbreaker was hurting Dari, and there was nothing Aron could do to stop it?
The air felt heavy with sadness and change, and that heaviness seemed to spread from Aron, Iko, and Blath forward to coat Dari, and farther still, to where Stormbreaker stood with a woman Aron had no doubt must be the one who had claimed Stormbreaker’s heart.
He remembered Lord Cobb’s greeting to Stormbreaker when they met on Aron’s journey to Triune. It’s good to see you again, too. What has it been since you last visited Cobb? Three years?… Four… During Lady Vagrat’s last visit.
Aron eyed the happy little girl, who looked more like her father than her mother. It was easy enough to count out the cycles and years. His gaze then moved back to Stormbreaker and Lady Vagrat, and a flicker of his graal told him that he wasn’t watching the reunion of two lovers who pined for each other, but rather two friends who remembered their history fondly.
Dari didn’t seem to realize that the emotion between Stormbreaker and Rakel Seadaughter was something from the past, not the present. Her tears flowed, but after another few moments, she straightened herself and turned toward Aron, Blath, and Iko. The misery in the depths of her black eyes couldn’t be missed, nor could the burden of dispatching Galvin Herder’s essence, or the sudden concern for Aron after his night in the box.
He gave her a quick bow, to relieve her of any worry over his well-being, and as she approached, he said, “You should rest. Will you allow Blath to escort you back to the Den?” Blath gave Aron a strange look, as if she might have been expecting him to exploit Dari at this troubled moment instead of doing what he could to ease her discomfort.
Aron frowned back at Blath without planning the expression, or considering it.
Did she not understand?
If Dari ever came to him with affection, Aron wanted it to be of her free choice, something that would make her happy, lighter of heart—never more weighted, sadder, or more at a loss.
Dari stopped in front of him. “She’s come, I think, to force Stone’s hand about the orphans and make some peaceful solution to the demand.”
Aron wondered at that, at why Lady Vagrat, who had been ill treated by at least one of Eyrie’s greater guilds, would involve herself in such a pursuit, but he didn’t think Dari was up to that conversation. She seemed like she wanted to ask something of him, and he waited, hopeful she might give him some concrete task he could complete on her behalf. Instead, she gazed at him, seeming to view him differently, and when she spoke, it was a simple question, friend to friend, not student to teacher, or anything else reflective of their previous difference in status.
“Did you know who it was?” Dari’s voice was soft, and so terribly pained.
Aron couldn’t help glancing toward Stormbreaker. “No. I knew only that he cared for someone in his past. He never told me the who of it, or the how.”
Dari looked away, toward the sky, then back at Aron again, and this time her gaze was deeper and more searching. “You’ve never reminded me of that, even as I tried to forget it. Even when it might have worked to your benefit.”
It was all Aron could do not to touch her in some way, even just his fingers to her elbow, to connect with her somehow, and let her feel the truth of his conviction in this matter. “Of course not.”
She kept up her steady scrutiny, but Aron withstood it, wondering if for the first time ever, he was finally doing something correct where Dari was concerned.
“It would have been painful,” she said, fresh tears gathering in the dark centers of her eyes.
Aron could think of nothing else to say beyond, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” Dari whispered, retreating inward and pulling her arms across her chest, crossed at the wrists. Aron couldn’t help realizing that something inside Dari was shifting, or perhaps breaking. That the tie of her heart to Stormbreaker had loosened, and maybe even snapped.
Why, then, could he find no joy in that fact?
“Don’t lose hope,” he told her, desperate to ease her misery. “I believe this marks an end for them, not a new beginning.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, not relieved at all, from what he could see. “At least not to me.”
She walked past him, headed in the general direction of the Den with Blath at her side, and Aron knew better than to follow her.
“Giving Stormbreaker a beating would be only a momentary satisfaction, and likely more trouble than it’s worth.”
Iko’s comment startled Aron so badly he spun toward the Sabor, then stared at Iko’s face to see if Iko was somehow making fun of him. He saw nothing but stolid regard in Iko’s countenance. The way Iko’s fists were clenched, he, too, might have been considering defending Dari’s heart in the literal sense.
The wild fury in Aron reached the tipping point, and he started walking, brushing past Iko without further comment. For so long, Lord Baldric’s threats had held Aron’s impulses in check, but this day, those threats meant no more to him than words lost in a loud, strong wind. He wanted to regulate his temper for himself, maybe for Dari, too. And he would do it his own way, without too much guidance or discussion, because he felt too tired, too sore, inside and out, to even be part of the living world.
Some minutes later, Aron arrived at his destination, the only place he could think to go to spend the wealth of anger and ill feelings without doing real damage, save for the Ruined Keep.
Endurance House was just as it always had been, a small building near the byway that ran past the forge, a barrier between the Shrine of the Mother and the rest of Triune. The dark cloud he had so often seen—imagined?—no longer hovered above it. No one was nearby, save for a squat, bald Stone Brother named Markam, sitting on the porch of the building, enjoying a slow sip of almond mead.
When Markam saw Aron coming, he put aside his metal cup and stood, his brown eyes alight with curiosity. “Aron Weylyn. I never thought to see you sent to receive my particular brand of correction. What offense has boy-perfect finally deigned to commit?”
“No offense,” Aron growled, unable to lighten his tone. “No one sent me.”
“Then—”
Aron cut Markam off with a sharp shake of his head. “What is this place? What is it really? Tell me, and don’t play games. I have no capacity for games this day.”
“Yes. I can see that.” Markam’s friendly expression turned serious as he gestured to the building behind them. “I know apprentices tell one another all manner of tales, but Endurance House is only a place of contemplation. A quiet space to contend with your own demons, and find peace with them. Nothing more.”
Aron took that in, weighed it, and made his decision. “Admit me.”
Markam shifted to worry, and pulled at his robe with both hands. “Are you certain? Some don’t react well to isolation—that’s where the stories began to grow, Aron.”
The waves cresting inside Aron seemed to smash through his whole being. He grabbed the front of the shorter man’s robes, absolutely unable to hold himself back. “Admit me! And the Sabor comes as well. If he wants.”
Markam regarded Aron like he just might be completely mad, but he freed himself from Aron’s grip and stepped aside to let him pass. Aron was dimly aware that Iko was following him, but he didn’t care. He strode straight into Endurance House, one of the two locations at Triune he had feared above all others, and walked all the way down the first hall, to the most distant room.
When he went inside, he found nothing but a chamber pot, a pitcher of water and a cup, a single pallet, and a single blanket.
“It’s only a room,” he said aloud, not certain what he had expected—torture devices?
That was more the rumor and myth of Stone than Stone’s reality.
Aron knew that. He knew it.
What had he been thinking?
Why had he built so much dread of this simple, barren building? It was as if someone else’s perceptions had been written atop his own, but now he had stripped them away.
He closed the door, leaving Iko outside in the hallway.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, Aron felt completely safe.
This was nothing but a blank, dark room, as solidly built as a forge oven, with the windows shuttered to allow no light, and the walls padded with wool, straw, and cloth to admit no sound, either.
As darkness and silence settled like a cloak around all of Aron’s senses, he knew there would be no disruptions at all, save for what his own mind might provide.
That, he decided, would be plenty.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
NIC
Nic rose to awareness shivering and knowing something was horribly wrong.
So cold.
His breath rose in a fog as he twitched against the blankets confining him, at first thinking he was still strapped to the boards that Snakekiller had used to keep him immobile while his bones healed, almost two years ago.
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