A Prince Among Killers

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

  Falconer bent down, until his face was inches from Aron’s once more. “What was so important about the people you rescued, that you would place yourself and your guild at such risk?”

  Aron snatched at his blankets instead of snatching at Falconer’s scant hair. “Leave now, before I lose control of myself and send you waddling out of Triune like a duck—or maybe I should have you hop like a rabbit, all the way back to Eidolon.”

  Falconer stood to his full height again, but he made no effort to leave the cell. Aron was breathing hard, trying to control the pound of his heart and the rush of blood to his head as Falconer struck too close to truths he didn’t need to understand.

  “I haven’t been able to stop wondering,” Falconer said, once more taking on the tone of an adult speaking to a much younger child. “Was it only the fact of your guild master’s sister being at risk, or was there more? Who was the boy she was protecting, the one with mind-talents almost as powerful as your own?”

  “Go!” Aron shouted, aware that he was giving away too much, but also aware that he was perilously close to striking at Falconer with his mind. “I won’t ask you again.”

  Falconer smiled at him, and Aron’s insides twisted. “Perhaps that question is worth more exploration before I leave this place. What do you think, Aron?”

  “I think Aron asked you to go,” Dari said from the cell door.

  Her voice startled both Aron and Falconer, as neither of them had heard or sensed her approach. Aron noted that she had her graal completely masked, all of it. Not even a hint of color escaped her dark skin, but he thought he saw a trace of Stormbreaker’s lightning in her eyes.

  “Did Lord Baldric give you permission to intrude on Aron’s solitude?” Dari asked Falconer, her tone calm and icy. “You have some jurisdiction to question orphans and the sheltered, but you have no business bothering apprentices of Stone—least of all those only weeks from their final trial.”

  Falconer spun toward her and took a quick step in her direction.

  Dari stepped aside to let him pass.

  For a moment, Aron was certain the man was about to grab her, perhaps even by the neck, but a pair of low, menacing growls reverberated through the House of the Judged. Aron recognized the traditional Sabor warning gesture. He hadn’t seen Blath behind Dari, but he assumed she was standing with Iko, just out of his sight, but well within view of Falconer.

  The man’s anger seemed to flare, then vanish, as if he had crammed his emotions into some deep cavern in his heart, inaccessible even to him. Falconer’s breathing slowed, and he looked less the frenzied, cruel lunatic he had been in Aron’s cell. Aron watched, amazed and disgusted, as the man shrugged on the persona of High Master of Thorn as quickly and easily as normal men donned a robe or tunic.

  “You, my dear, are as much a puzzle as Aron here,” he said. “Aron and the boy he rescued when he retrieved Tiamat Snakekiller from the plains of Dyn Cobb.”

  “I suggest you concern yourself with the puzzle of leaving Triune, and getting your new charges safely back to Eidolon.” Dari’s voice was tense and quiet, yet it carried the force of thunder, so much so that Aron expected to hear the distant rumble. “Aron won’t be amongst that number, and neither will I, nor any recent rescues.”

  Falconer glanced over his shoulder at Aron, his eyes blazing with new fury. “Think on what I said. If you’re so good at reading truth, then you know I spoke it. You know the sanest option is to leave this place with me.”

  Aron looked away from Falconer, and heard the man’s footfalls as he finally departed the cell, and ultimately the building.

  “What an ass,” Dari murmured as the outer doors slammed closed behind the Thorn Brother.

  When Aron looked up at her, he had a moment of wondering if Dari was speaking about Falconer, or about him. He had resisted her visits since his return, but as he gazed at her standing at his cell’s entrance, splendid in the dusty sunlight filling the House of the Judged, he couldn’t quite remember why.

  Reality crept back, despite her beauty.

  He was dangerous. Possibly doomed by his trial, or by Judgment. He had done horrible things to Nic and Snakekiller, and should he survive the fate waiting for him when Lord Baldric decreed it, he might do equally horrible things in the future. He loved Dari, and he didn’t want her to be stained or injured by her association with him.

  He stood from his cot and faced her, heart beating so hard he winced from the discomfort.

  “You should leave,” he told her.

  “You should be quiet,” she shot back.

  Then she stepped forward, slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ARON

  The next weeks of Aron’s life passed in a blur, much like his first days at Triune. He emerged from the House of the Judged at Dari’s insistence, unable to stand against her powerful will, or even the simplest of her wishes. When she so much as glanced in his direction, he felt like an eager talon, ready to strain and pull and tear up the earth to do her bidding.

  At her urging, he petitioned Lord Baldric to allow him to go to his trial on his birthday, and to allow him to return to his normal training and duties in the meantime. Lord Baldric agreed that this timing was right for Aron’s trial, as if compelled by an unstoppable force. A force, Aron figured, named Dari Ross.

  Aron didn’t need Dari’s encouragement to apologize to Stormbreaker for his withdrawal to the House of the Judged, and for separating himself from the guild that needed him. He repeated that apology to Zed and to Raaf, to the other apprentices in the Den, and even to Windblown, and felt mild but happy surprise when they accepted his contrition and simply returned to life as usual, despite the pall of uncertainty hanging over Triune—a danger that Aron knew was of his own making. Lord Baldric and Stormbreaker impressed upon Aron that remaining at Stone was the best course of action, as he and Nic and Dari would be little more than Guard fodder on the byways, even with a contingent of Stone Brothers and Sisters assigned to protect them. Besides, those intent on attacking Stone would do so whether or not their quarry had fled, and Stone would be better served with extra hands in the fight than to have their might divided between Triune and a traveling party.

  As for traveling parties, Thorn’s First High Master Falconer didn’t make his departure for Dyn Vagrat and the island of Eidolon, but he kept well clear of Aron and Dari, and Nic as well. In fact, Falconer avoided them so thoroughly that Aron wondered if the Thorn Brother had been threatened by Lord Baldric or Stormbreaker, or perhaps both of them. Not that Aron had much time to think about it. All of his free hours were spent either with Dari, or helping with Nic’s recovery—and without burdening Nic with the weight of accepting or rejecting the many apologies Aron felt he owed but could never make with enough amends and reparations. Aron had even come to accept his new schedule without complaint, spending time with Dari and helping her with her search early in the week, then watching her turn her attention to Stormbreaker later in the week.

  Now that Stormbreaker seemed to have made his break with Rakel Seadaughter, he had professed interest in Dari, and she had made it clear to him and to Aron that she wished to see both of them. Aron and Stormbreaker made a gentleman’s agreement between them not to fight over Dari, or pressure her to make decisions she did not appear ready to make. That hadn’t been easy, but it had been necessary. Aron figured that if he or Stormbreaker tried to impose their will on Dari, they would lose her immediately.

  All of this occupied Aron’s mind as he helped Nic to his feet, intent on meeting Dari for graal lessons in time.

  “You’re lost in thought,” Nic said as he turned Aron loose and steadied himself for the trek from infirmary to the Den, which was part of the strengthening program Snakekiller worked with the healers to devise.

  “That’s probably dangerous.” Aron rubbed the small of his own back, which was still sore from a long set of rides on Tek during weapons training. “I’ll try to stay out of my o
wn head, for the good of all of Eyrie.”

  They left the infirmary with Iko following a few lengths behind them. For a time, they walked in silence, and Aron enjoyed the break from the cold, and the hints of greens and yellows beginning to peek through the dead browns of winter. He also enjoyed Nic’s easy companionship, as comfortable to him already as Zed’s and Raaf’s—perhaps even more brotherly.

  Nic cleared his throat, and Aron’s graal gave a twinge that made him lurch forward instead of taking a normal step. At the same moment, he noticed a flash of red robes, and he saw Falconer crossing the byway ahead of them, heading in the general direction of Endurance House and the Shrine of the Mother. The Thorn Brother didn’t glance in their direction, but Aron had a sense that he was aware of them, that Falconer might even be snooping in his own fashion, keeping abreast of their activity—for what purpose, Aron couldn’t begin to say.

  Nic didn’t seem to notice Falconer, or the fact Aron was having difficulty navigating a straight course down the byway. “You joke about staying out of your own head,” Nic said. “You make jests about your legacy, but it’s a serious thing, as is my own—though I admit I don’t yet understand the extent of my mind-talents.”

  Aron tried to keep walking normally, though his anxiety was mounting, wondering where Nic was heading with this conversation. Perhaps it wasn’t Falconer at all who had set off the warning in Aron’s mind. Perhaps it was Nic’s intention to bring up difficult subjects, and at last lay them open for discussion.

  “I hope for your sake that your legacy isn’t as dark as mine,” Aron said, wishing that could be enough of an apology.

  “Your graal isn’t dark, and neither are you.” Nic’s response seemed effortless. Aron had noticed that though Nic didn’t seem to speak as much as other people, his words usually carried some weight, as if each utterance was well considered. “Graal isn’t inherently wrong or bad, in my opinion, so long as you choose to try to do the right things with your abilities.”

  “But how can I know what the right things are, with a power like this?” Aron asked the question too loudly, because it had been bound inside him for so long, at least since Platt first brought up the possibility that he could use his legacy for the proper pursuits. “In the moment, things can seem one way, then turn out to be another. Or I can command things without realizing I’ve done it.”

  Brother help him. He hadn’t meant to turn the topic in that direction, but there it was. There it had always been and always would be, the issue between Nic and Aron.

  “Like when we first made contact on the other side of the Veil,” Nic said, confirming Aron’s thoughts, and making the barrier between them all the more real. “When you forced me to live.”

  Aron stopped walking. He wrapped his arms around his belly and almost doubled over as air left him. Hearing it aloud, from the person he had wounded in such a fashion, felt like a blow from a fighting staff.

  “There was no way I could have survived injuries like that,” Nic went on from behind him, as if oblivious to Aron’s reaction. “Much less the repeated bouts of Wasting that I’ve endured. Your graal is so powerful that one single word, one single command to live—and I’ve lived.”

  “When I did it, I had no idea.” Aron pressed on his belly to force out the words. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.”

  Nic limped up beside him, then came to stand in front of him. When Aron straightened and looked into Nic’s eyes, he found only bright blue interest and kindness, and a strange sort of peaceful acceptance. “It has been difficult, to approach death so many times, to need death, yet find it out of my reach. I’m certain if my wounds were grievous enough that my mind and will couldn’t override my body, I would cross over to the next life—but so far, my mind wins the battle.”

  Nic paused, and Aron waited for the rest, hoping it wouldn’t be too awful, but at the same time wishing it would be. Nic should curse him. Maybe hit him, or beat him, or even kill him for what he did. Aron wouldn’t fight him. Whatever Nic said or did, Aron knew he deserved it, and worse.

  “I’m not sure I would have retained my wits and thoughts if Snakekiller hadn’t helped me learn to cope with the pain.” Nic crossed his arms as if to fend off the thought of such agony. “But I don’t regret it, Aron. Neither do I hold any anger for you forcing your will on me in Dyn Cobb, to save my life yet again.”

  Aron’s mouth came open, and he felt punched all over again. He grabbed Nic by the arms. “Don’t forgive me. Please.”

  Nic pulled his elbows free of Aron’s grip, giving him a strange look. “Why? Do you enjoy torturing yourself with guilt?”

  “It’s not that.” Aron almost grabbed Nic again. He wanted to shake Nic, make him take back his pardon. “It’s—without the guilt, I—”

  Aron closed his mouth because he didn’t have words for the rest, but Nic seemed to pick up the thread. “You see the guilt as a restraint. An assurance you won’t take the wrong action, or make more mistakes like the one you made with me when you demanded that I live.”

  To this, Aron had no response, because it was exactly correct. Heat crept up his neck, threatening to overtake his face, and he felt helpless against Nic’s ability to read his meaning, and against his own reaching for the truth. The more he used his graal, it seemed, the less comfortable he became with lies, even the sort of fibs people told themselves and one another to ease life’s daily wounds.

  “I think you should trust yourself more than that.” Nic took Aron’s wrist and pulled him forward, toward the Den. “I think you’ll sail through your trial, and become one of the strongest Stone Brothers ever known. You’ll probably draw the stone on Canus the Bandit, and I’ll applaud you when you choke the life from that child-stealing, thieving sack of waste.”

  Aron kept pace with Nic, unable to completely shake the lingering dread and misery that had gripped him when Nic finally broached the subject of Aron’s brutal intervention in Nic’s life. His swirl of emotions prevented him from exercising restraint, and he immediately brought up the other subject he had so wanted to explore with Nic. “You’ve seen him. Canus the Bandit. You’ve spoken to him, face-to-face.”

  “Yes.” Nic’s legs ratcheted forward, keeping him ahead of Aron, as if the memory stole his ability to fully attend to his body’s movements. “I thought at first that it might have been his men who attacked us. Snakekiller says it wasn’t, but who knows if that outlaw has managed to corrupt Guardsmen to his wishes.”

  Aron eyed the entrance to the Den courtyard, just ahead of them. “Lord Baldric says he’s stealing back supplies confiscated by Guard troops and feeding villages—and snatching children to ‘protect’ them from disappearing. That’s why Lord Ross won’t issue a writ against him. Lord Ross says he’s the only man in Dyn Brailing still defending the common people.” Aron glanced at the sky, judging time by the skies. “Canus the Bandit is gaining so many followers, he’s becoming a guild unto himself—almost a rogue dynast lord.”

  Nic turned his head and spat on the ground to express his disgust. When he looked back at Aron, Aron saw anger—a rare thing, he knew, where Nic was concerned.

  Nic’s voice shook as he said, “It’s a sad thing, that goodfolk have to turn to the likes of Canus the Bandit for protection from their own soldiers and nobles.”

  A halo of red formed around Nic’s body, and Aron found himself easing to the side to give Nic more space as they walked. In that moment, Aron could imagine Nic’s body straight and whole. He could see Nic standing fierce and tall, wielding a sword against any who sought to do harm in Eyrie.

  “You told me I should trust myself,” Aron murmured, increasing the distance between himself and Nic. “Maybe it’s you who should trust yourself.”

  They crossed through the archway, Aron so far to Nic’s left that his fingers brushed the stone supports. The courtyard was empty, and Aron knew very few people would be in the keep itself, since it was during training hours.

  As they approached the Den’s big w
ooden doors, Nic said, “You think I could be king.”

  “I do.” Aron glanced at Nic again, still wary of the red fog of graal power ringing Nic. “In fact, I have no doubt.”

  • • •

  Later, when Dari opened her chamber door to admit them, Aron lost himself in her smile, in each brief touch as he and Nic seated themselves beside her in preparation for the lesson. He was looking forward to the close contact with her, even if his lessons were more disturbing now, as she taught him how to focus the full essence of his graal and actually use it deliberately. They had touched on truth-sensing, truth-seeking, and being open to truths in the environment. They had even practiced compelling small animals to do his will, which he found distasteful, but also intriguing. Aron then remained present during Nic’s lessons as a safety measure, with instructions to break in and take control of Nic or Dari if either seemed out of control, trapped, or endangered on the other side of the Veil.

  “You two seem more relaxed with each other,” Dari said as she surveyed Nic and Aron. “But also more tense. Did you talk about important things—finally?”

  Aron sighed and nodded. After all, Dari had been encouraging him almost daily to make his apologies and amends to Nic, and have done with it. To his surprise, Nic flushed and nodded as well, and Aron realized Dari must have been chiding him, too.

  By the Brother. Did she control all the men at Stone, or just most of them?

  Aron could only stare at her. Jealousy stabbed at him, and he glanced from Dari to Nic and back to Dari again.

  They hadn’t discussed Nic as a person Dari might show interest in courting. Aron had no agreement with Nic like he had with Stormbreaker. And why should he? Stormbreaker and Aron had known Dari for many cycles now. Nic was a newcomer. What did he know, really, of Dari’s strength, of the depth of her true beauty?

  “Aron?” Dari’s voice nudged into the whirlwind of emotion consuming Aron. “Is something wrong?”