Assassin's Apprentice

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

  Aron realized his father’s tone was confident, soothing—but there was also an edge of something else. Something like anger, or maybe worry. When he gazed into his father’s eyes once again, he saw an unfamiliar glint in those dark depths, and he didn’t know what to say.

  “Our forebears selected this distant corner of Dyn Brailing because the demands of greater society rarely reach so far into nothing.” Wolf smiled, but Aron noted that his father’s scarred face didn’t brighten like it usually did. “Harvest will come and go. Of that, we can be certain. I doubt it will be much more to us than another passing day.”

  The chaos inside Aron began to settle. He studied the dav’ha tattoos along his father’s arms, picking out symbols for friendship, sacrifice, and courage. Then symbols of places and battles. Wolf Brailing had explained many of his obligations to his son, but no one had ever appeared at their farm demanding that Aron’s father honor a dav’ha.

  For the first time, it occurred to Aron that this might be unusual. That if they lived in Can Rune or one of the other great cities, people might show up from all quarters, calling on their sworn allegiances like merchants demanding coin for cloth or spices. Kindness, honest labor, honor, and truth—of course his father would have answered every call.

  “The demands of greater society rarely reach so far into nothing,” Aron murmured, and his father nodded.

  “The sun still shines in the sky, yet I have two men lazy from afternoon’s business,” Aron’s mother said from the corner of the barn. “Where is this honest labor you’re always discussing, Wolf Brailing?”

  Aron flinched at the sound of her voice and tried to collect the dantha leaf along with all of its incriminating crumbs, but his mother’s eye was far too sharp for sleight of hand. She approached them, her reddish brown hair escaping from the tie that bound it at the nape of her neck. The blue-green flecks in her brown eyes seemed to flash as she scowled.

  “I suppose you’ll need less portion at supper, boy.” Her expression seemed fierce as Aron sheepishly offered the folded dantha leaf to his father, but her tone was light, almost teasing. She seemed to be directing her words more to Aron’s father than Aron himself. “May the Brother of Many Faces keep your belly full until morning. Both of you.”

  Wolf got to his feet along with Aron. His expression remained placid, but Aron saw no severity when he said, “There, woman. I chose you for your kindness, didn’t I? You’d never deny a man nourishment on his youngest daughter’s birthday.”

  When Wolf reached for his wife, she didn’t smack him or pull away, but leaned in to him and kissed his craggy cheek. From behind his mother came the calls of Aron’s eight siblings, returning from the hayfields and vegetable patch.

  “Go,” his mother instructed with a point to her left. “Tend to your talon, then fetch the little birthday girl and see that she and her sister scrub themselves clean while I finish preparing our meal.”

  Aron’s eldest brother, Seth, came closer, adjusting his long hair in its looped leather tie, then wiping sweat off his tanned face. Not for the first time, Aron marveled at how Seth had come to resemble their father, so much so they could have passed for brothers.

  “I’ll gather the girls,” Seth said. “Meet me by the well when you’ve finished with Tek.”

  Aron nodded his thanks to Seth, who went to sweep up the dark-headed girls spatting with each other near the front door. The older boys headed for the house, obviously grateful that they didn’t have to manage their little sisters, who could be as fierce as rock cat cubs fighting over a meat scrap.

  As Aron slipped into the barn, he saw his father gazing at the sky with that strange look on his face again. The odd sensations inside Aron’s belly started up anew, and he paused just inside the shadow of the door, curious to know if his mother would reveal what Wolf Brailing was thinking.

  After a long moment, his father said, “They’ll pass us by tomorrow. They stay away from dynast lines to avoid hard feelings from the ruling seats.”

  “We are far down the line of succession from the dynast seat.” Aron’s mother spoke gently, but from the divide between barn door and barn wall, Aron saw his father frown at her. Behind them, between barn and house, Seth had one little sister over his shoulder and the other pinned against the well, doing his best to wash her face.

  “True, we’re nothing but root farmers scratching a living from the dirt,” Wolf said in a strained voice, oblivious to the chaos behind him. “But we’re Brailings of Brailing. That bears some consideration.”

  Aron’s mother answered with a shrug. “Can Rune’s rectors said our children were Quiet—they have no Fae legacy of mind-talents. So even if the Stone Guild comes to our farm, our blood might not speak.”

  “Stone’s testing methods are more refined,” his father said, the edge in his tone growing. “They prefer children with a touch of legacy even if they don’t use the legacies in their hunts and killing—because legacies go hand in hand with intelligence and learning ability.”

  “Well, if the blood does speak,” his mother countered, “at least one of our children would have a chance to get a proper education.”

  “From Stone?” Wolf growled the words so angrily Aron faded backward into the barn’s cool depths. “What does the Stone Guild teach beyond murder and death? One of ours, an assassin. Cayn’s teeth!”

  “I’ll thank you not to call the name of the horned god in my presence,” Aron’s mother said with a distinct chill in her voice. She was a devoted follower of the Brother, and such women didn’t brook mention of the horned god of death. “Even outside, I’d prefer not to call ill fortune.”

  Aron’s father showed no remorse. In fact, his voice grew loud enough to drown out the sounds of arguing at the well. “If it’s guild training you want for our children, slay a dynast heir and steal his purse so we can pay to place our offspring with the Thorn Guild. Better our children turn out to be healers or scholars than trained killers.”

  “Thorn … doesn’t take as many children as it once did, or so I hear at market, whenever the girls and I take thread to sell to the cloth-makers.” Aron’s mother kept her tone more casual, but he heard the undertone of worry. Maybe even hopelessness. “The Thorn Guild has forgotten Eyrie’s orphans. I know you’ve always admired Thorn and its work, but Thorn’s Lady Provost—she’s a different sort of leader, I think, than Thorn has ever seen.”

  “I don’t want to hear gossip about the Lady Provost of Thorn.” Aron’s father seemed to turn a deeper shade of red as each second passed. “The Thorn Guild has always been the keeper of honor and truth in our land, and I don’t see that changing. You don’t hear of Thorn stealing children to thicken their own ranks, do you?”

  Aron’s mother remained silent for a moment, then finished the conversation simply and directly. “You can’t save us from Harvest, Wolf Brailing, no matter how much you rage and bluster. Fae or goodfolk, castle or hut, to Stone go the Stones.”

  She walked away then, and Aron stepped back again, until he could barely see his father. He put both hands atop his belly and pressed, hoping to silence the loud rumbling, maybe ease the twisting and turning.

  To Stone went the Stones. Meaning, those chosen by Stone had no choice but to become Stone Guild members themselves.

  That was the way of things, just like the turning of fate.

  To the Stone Guild went the poor, the simple—those with nothing to protect them. To the Thorn Guild went the rich and privileged. The two guilds had once balanced the needs of Eyrie’s goodfolk, but one had become filled with darkness, judgment, death, and the children of paupers. The other had filled itself with light, learning, healing, and the children of wealthy families. Families with less coin could send their children to trade lodges like the Carpenters’ Union or the Blacksmiths’ League, lower in status, but still a way to learn, and ultimately to earn. Farming families like Aron’s, they occasionally managed to arrange apprentice training for one or two of their children, and they had no choic
e but to take their chances on Harvest.

  To Stone go the Stones.

  But I am no Stone. Next year, I’ll be with Grommond, learning the ways of livestock and preparing to change my family’s lot in this land.

  Aron told himself this, and he did it more than once, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything but a strange misery in his muscles and a growing catch in his breath.

  Some seconds later, Wolf glanced into the barn, directly at Aron, as if he knew the exact spot where Aron stood. He gave a wink and a smile. Don’t fear, little one. My children are a wealth I won’t surrender. You will always be my son.

  Aron’s shoulders chilled.

  He was almost certain he was simply reading the meaning of his father’s expression, or imagining what he might say. The sensation made his insides lurch, but he dismissed it as nerves and folly. If Wolf Brailing had any of the Brailing legacy, any of those old Fae mind-talents, they would all be wealthy and spoiled, living in Can Rune and working in service to their dynast lord.

  Behind him in the barn, Tek let out a trumpet. No doubt she was irate over Aron’s failure to bring her a prompt dinner.

  Aron moved to a space in the barn wall and watched his father walk toward the house. He saw how Wolf Brailing worked to keep his step light, his manner calm and comforting.

  “Tomorrow is nothing,” his father said to Seth as he passed the well and his wailing, wet daughters.

  But at almost fifteen years of age, Aron knew tomorrow would bring long hours of wait and worry.

  From sunup to sundown, children would be Harvested from all over Eyrie—including Dyn Brailing—for this was their one year in six to pay tribute to the Stone Guild like the other five dynasts.

  To Stone go the Stones.

  Seth went back to scrubbing his little sisters, and Wolf Brailing kept walking, but all Aron could do was stand and watch and listen to Tek’s bleating, and hope that Eyrie’s blue-white sun forgot to rise and bring the morning.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NIC

  Cured wooden walls and turrets creaked above Can Rowan, the Tree City, the glorious capital of Dyn Mab. Rope bridges swung and groaned in predawn breezes, and windows both high and low remained lightless and curtained.

  Nicandro Mab heard each sound and studied each darkened window in turn, and tried not to lose his mind.

  Trapped in his sister’s vast and sweltering bedchamber, Nic imagined lurking dangers on the black ground far below, almost wishing one of those dangers might find him, claim him, and put an end to his hours of pain. Sane people remained safely inside during Eyrie’s nights, even in Dyn Mab. He knew that all through the six dynasts, fires burned against the menacing darkness, because light was the best protection. Light and fire, and of course, silver daggers.

  Sweat stung Nic’s eyes as he pushed away from his sister’s windowsill. He had known no rest for two miserable nights. His overlarge body ached to rest, and on this, the third and longest night of his vigil, he was so hot and tired that he feared he might fall to the board floors. His lungs didn’t want to draw from the bedchamber’s stifling air as he once more settled himself at his sister’s bedside. His soft muscles cramped to protest sitting again, but he couldn’t imagine standing another minute, or how he would move from his watch once the time came.

  He took Kestrel’s fingers and held them tightly, even though he could see death slinking down the slack lines of her open mouth, feel it burning through her papery skin. Kestrel, who had always loved him despite his clumsy hands and clumsier wits, would leave him soon.

  Her face looked so perfect, but so pale beneath tangled mats of golden hair. Dark rings underscored her eyes, which had once been wide, bright, and blue, like his eyes, like the eyes of his two brothers who had been murdered in the year past. Like their father, who had succumbed to a hunting accident three years ago.

  The accident meant to kill me. Nic closed his eyes then opened them, unable to shut out the bitter truth. I should have been first to die, since I was youngest and easiest. My tragedy would have aroused no suspicion—or sorrow.

  It was just a hunting trip, a lark, a recreation day—but a mocker had attacked the hunting party not even a full league from Can Rowan’s walled edge. Nic’s father had seen the misshapen eagle before the beast could snag Nic with its claws. His father battled the creature even after it shifted to its twisted man-form and spit poison and slashed him with daggerlike nails. Nic had escaped through a grove of heartwoods and found the honor guard, but even the dynast’s finest guardsmen couldn’t save Lord Mab. Nic had watched his father, Eyrie’s king consort, die much as Nic’s sister was dying—holding Nic’s hand and gasping for one more draft of cool air.

  Why do I keep living when everyone I love dies?

  Nic shifted his weight, drawing a groan from his overburdened chair. The moments between Kestrel’s breaths stretched longer, and he marked them by counting, by begging death to keep its distance for another minute. Maybe one more hour, to give him a last sunrise with her.

  Perhaps she would wake, or say something to ease his guilt. She had offered to let him taste his first mead on her birthday a week ago, but he had refused. If he hadn’t, he might already be dead. If he had knocked her cup and horn to the floor with some ham-fisted gesture as he so often did, she wouldn’t have swallowed the treacherous drink, and she wouldn’t be dying at all.

  Torn between wanting peace for his sister and wishing to keep her forever, Nic continued to count seconds between Kestrel’s breaths and whisper prayers to the horned god of death, even though most citizens of Eyrie worshipped the Brother of Many Faces and, in the Brother’s honor, shunned direct pleas to Cayn. Most goodfolk were so superstitious, they wouldn’t even say the horned god’s name indoors, especially not in a bedchamber.

  Nic didn’t think it mattered, or made any difference at all. He knew that shunned or welcomed, Cayn would come as he chose to the house of Mab, just as he had three times before. The horned god had been wicked to Nic’s brothers, who were large and strong. They had lingered for weeks before they died, fighting the mysterious creeping death the rectors later declared a deep-acting poison.

  The sight of her sons dying so terribly had finally driven his mother into madness—though she had walked close to that abyss since Nic could remember. The women in the Mab bloodline were prone to fragility. There was nothing to be done. Nic was glad Lady Mab had thus far chosen not to attend Kestrel’s passing. He didn’t know if he could bear her frenetic presence, or watch her agony as the poison claimed yet another of her children.

  “It must have been tasteless,” the rectors had told Lady Mab. “Perhaps mixed with sugar and laced on the tarts…”

  This time, Nic was sure the poison had been in the mead. Kestrel became ill only hours after the meal, and the mead was the only thing he hadn’t shared with her. No one would believe him, of course. Nic wasn’t known for his observant nature—only his impressive girth and the number of jokes goodfolk made at his expense.

  These he put from his mind.

  At least his sister was dying quickly. Maybe if Nic welcomed and respected Cayn, the horned god would show Kestrel some small mercy the Brother had forgotten.

  Nic wanted to cry, but he was sixteen, and he knew he could no longer afford to behave like a child. It was bad enough that his body was soft, that he couldn’t learn his letters and lessons, or keep his attention on the tasks his tutors set before him. He could not, on top of that, be spineless. Dynast lords had to be courageous. Dynast lords had to think of others and not their own selfish desires. Nic knew that if Kestrel died—when she died—he had to be a proper heir to Dyn Mab, the most powerful of dynasts, with its bounty of heartwood, salt, fish, and other blessings from the sea. In time, he would have to be a good and true high king to all of Eyrie’s six dynasts.

  “I hope I die fast if they poison me before I take the throne,” he whispered to Kestrel.

  From his right he heard sniffs and grumbles, which reminded
him he wasn’t alone in his sister’s bedchamber. Three black-robed rectors stood in attendance, sweating in the heat of the roaring hearth fire. Their shadows danced on the wooden castle walls, fell across the chairs and benches, and stained the whites and yellows of the bed’s canopy and linens.

  One of them whispered a word Nic knew all too well.

  Hobbledehoy.

  They weren’t being unkind, not really. Only calling him by gentlest of the nicknames Eyrie’s goodfolk preferred. Most people in Eyrie thought Nic was dim. They believed he would be an awkward, clumsy child forever, both in body and in mind, not fit to inherit the mantle of his proud bloodline.

  Nic Mab, Eyrie’s hob-prince.

  He shoved such thoughts out of his mind again and fast went back to ignoring the rectors, shadows and whispers and all. They hadn’t been able to halt the poison’s progress despite their vaunted training with the Thorn Guild, and more from their own elders once they took vows at the Temple of the Brother. Nic judged the rectors useless except to stoke the flames and keep his sister calm with nightshade wine. Thorn itself seemed to be growing more useless by the day, too. Where were the Thorn Guild High Masters that usually attended the death of a numbered heir to the throne? Where was the Lady Provost of Thorn, herself?

  Nic didn’t much like the woman, but she had come when his father died, and when his brothers lay sick and fading.

  Was Kestrel any less important?

  As if hearing his thoughts, Kestrel drew a labored breath. Nic pressed her long fingers tighter in his palm as the air rattled out from her open mouth.

  One, two, three, four … He ticked off seconds between her breaths as the rectors stirred and muttered amongst themselves.

  “Sister,” Nic said in his steadiest voice.