Assassin's Apprentice

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

  “He might hate us, yes.” Stormbreaker’s interruption completely silenced Windblown and stilled Zed, who held his fingers against the laces of his tunic.

  “But Aron Frosteye has shown us two important things,” Stormbreaker continued. “First, he possesses courage. Second and more important, life—even ours—has meaning to him. Those virtues will see us through tonight’s task, I think.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ARON

  On the talon side of the landbound barn, the floor was littered with chunks of goat jerky Stormbreaker had used to feed Tek. Aron stood on a stool inside the smallest talon stall, washing the smelly secretions from Tek’s neck scales. Reflections of lamplight flickered in the basin of water Stormbreaker had brought him. Sweat coated Aron’s face and arms, but he wasn’t hot or winded. It felt so unnatural to be outside safe quarters in the darkness that his own heart seemed to be trying to climb out of his body.

  Each time the barn creaked, Tek squeaked and Aron almost jumped out of his skin. The bull talons snorted and rattled against the chains securing their stone stalls, but overall, the big males were peaceful.

  Aron was not.

  A few minutes before, after tending the bulls, Stormbreaker had gone through the large wooden gates in the wall separating horse-side from talon-side, to put up the mules beside the few packhorses in for the night. Now, though the Stone Brother was only on the other side of the structure, behind gates and a wooden wall erected to keep talons and horses separate, Aron felt absolutely alone. His muscles ached. His knees trembled. His fingers and wrists tingled from cuts and bruises earned fighting his bindings on the ride, and blood still streaked his filthy arms. Worse still, his stomach fairly ached from hunger.

  “Make haste,” came Stormbreaker’s muffled command through the wall. “We have much to do before middle-night. Come horse-side when you’ve secured your beast.”

  Aron ground his teeth.

  The man was completely mad, no question.

  Would he take them outside to dance naked in front of a horde of manes? Better yet, perhaps he had some extra jerky to attract rock cats and mockers.

  Aron scooted the stool around, washed Tek’s face, and gazed into the fiery red of her lidless eyes. A membrane slipped up, then down, up, then down, clearing the little talon’s eyes. It was almost like blinking, but faster. Aron kissed her wide, leathery nose and wished, not for the first time, that he had a trace of the Cobb legacy so he could truly talk to Tek, not just sense her needs. Animal-speaking would be a gift to him now, with Tek his only true companion. Even plant-speaking would have been a relief. Aron would have gladly conversed with the roots under the barn or the trees outside instead of climbing down from his stool and fastening the heavy chains to keep Tek in her stone stall. Only the memory of Stormbreaker’s control of lightning kept him moving.

  Tek let out a wet snort as Aron eased out of the small door beside the wide wooden gates Stormbreaker had already closed and bolted. Aron fastened the smaller door immediately, and tested it to be certain it was firmly shut. In a barn, talon-side and horse-side should never mix without handlers present, or the horses might get eaten.

  “Excellent,” Stormbreaker said from just outside the barn’s open main gates. “You already have good habits. I had hoped by taking a farmer’s son, I could avoid having to cover some of the basics.”

  Aron stood inside the dark barn, glaring at the man’s back. Moons-light illuminated Stormbreaker, along with the fires burning around the shelter and the tallow lines and pyres burning on either side of the barn. In the dancing light, with his cowl raised, the tall Stone Brother looked less than real, less than formed, and ready to combust into sparks and swirl into the night sky.

  Thinking of sparks brought Aron back to images of lightning, and he shivered.

  “You’ll find another basin and clean clothing near the horse stalls,” Stormbreaker said. “Wash yourself, Aron, and dress. Do not waste time.”

  Aron complied, though the water chilled him as he scrubbed blood, mud, and dust off of his bare skin. When he finished, he emptied the basin in a waste trench, stared into the impassive faces of the stabled mules and packhorses, then forced himself to don the gray tunic and breeches of a Stone apprentice. The fabric felt soft, soothing, even pleasant—but Aron would have chosen nakedness or robes of flame instead, if he had been presented with those options. He balled up his soiled garments, intending to keep them. His mother had spun the tunic herself, and his sisters had helped. His father and brothers had tooled the breeches and leather lacings. They were relics of his true family and true home, like his sapphire cheville.

  He clutched the soiled clothing to his chest and made himself walk toward the barn gates. Did that fool of a Stone Brother really intend for them to go outside, to stay outside after dark—almost to middle-night?

  “Join me,” Stormbreaker ordered without turning his head. “Do not fear. I will keep you safe—and you will keep me safe. We have work to do, Frosteye.”

  Because he didn’t dare refuse, Aron put out the lanterns in the barn, walked outside into the dangerous night, and took his place at Stormbreaker’s side.

  Stormbreaker turned to Aron and gestured for Aron’s dirty clothes.

  Startled, Aron held the filthy rags tighter.

  Stormbreaker’s eyes narrowed. He gestured again.

  Swallowing curse upon curse, hating himself for being so spineless, Aron thrust the tunic and breeches forward and let the Stone Brother take them. Then he watched in absolute horror and disbelief as Stormbreaker strode to the side of the barn and casually tossed Aron’s clothes—Aron’s clothes from home—into the burning trench of tallow.

  The flames blazed and spit as they consumed the discarded cloth and leather. Aron opened his mouth to protest, to yell his rage and dismay, but tears clogged his eyes and grief sealed his voice tight.

  Without slowing down, Stormbreaker returned to Aron’s side and gestured to the barn gates.

  Mute with shock and sadness, Aron stared, uncomprehending.

  Stormbreaker waited patiently.

  Slowly, old habits elbowed forward in Aron’s thoughts, and he perceived the risk of open barn gates.

  Tek.

  He had to make Tek safe, no matter that Stormbreaker wanted him to do it. He would do it for Tek and the bulls, for the mules and the horses, and for no other reason.

  Aron felt wooden when he moved, but he did move, and with Stormbreaker’s help, he closed the animals safely inside the barn. Stormbreaker slid the heavy bolt into place, took a long silver dagger from his robes, gripped the tip of the blade, and presented the hilt to Aron.

  “Take this,” he instructed.

  Aron stared once more, his thoughts still slow.

  “Take the dagger,” Stormbreaker said more firmly. “Now. You will need it shortly.”

  Aron reached up and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He was still cold from his washing and now doubly cold from night air, fear, the loss of his precious clothes—and total shock.

  “Yes, you could use that blade against me,” Stormbreaker said as he returned to his position in front of the barn gates, facing out toward the shelter and the road. “I’ve robbed you of all you’ve known since birth. I wouldn’t blame you if you did find my ribs and try to gut me.”

  Aron clenched the hilt of the knife and stared up at the Stone Brother. He had kidnapped Aron, cost him his family, stolen his birthright, his dreams, even his clothes—and now he handed him a dagger and as much as dared him to use it to avenge himself? Aron’s chilled muscles quivered.

  Could freedom possibly come so easily? And with the man’s permission?

  Stormbreaker lowered his cowl, setting free the tangles of his white hair. He took a slow breath, spread his feet slightly, clasped his hands palms up at the level of his stomach, and assumed a standing meditation pose. Aron blinked. He had seen his father do the same thing many times. Aron had gone through the Veil in such a pose, just as he had done it sit
ting in a quiet place, floating in a peaceful pond, dangling his feet in a stream, and even mucking the hog pen.

  His hands began to tremble. He willed himself to use the dagger, to plunge it into Stormbreaker’s side, or, yes, gut him like a hog hung for dressing. The dagger shook in his fingers. He almost dropped it.

  “It’s a simple thing to kill in a moment of passion or rage.” Stormbreaker kept his eyes closed and his hands clasped. “Such killing is almost always wrong, except in defense of self or family. It’s much harder to kill with calculation and planning.”

  Aron snarled and threw down the dagger. “I’m no oathbreaker. You can’t make me a murderer.”

  “I cannot,” Stormbreaker agreed. “Killing is always a choice—a choice only you can make. Pick up the dagger. It’s pure silver, and you’ll need it.”

  Once more, Aron blinked at the man who stood so still, so calm, ordering an enemy to retrieve his weapon.

  He knows I’m not a murderer, that I won’t hurt him. Aron faced the meditating Stone Brother, raised his dagger—and still he hesitated. Images of stabbing the man filled his mind. Stormbreaker’s belly would be soft like a hog’s gut, and blood would color his gray robes forever.

  And stain my hands. And stain my essence. And make me an oathbreaker forever and always. Massacre i’massacres. The Code of Eyrie’s fourth law. Unsanctioned killing is Unforgivable.

  “Cayn’s teeth.” Aron whirled and faced the road. The silver dagger felt heavy, and he gripped the hilt tighter as he lowered the knife.

  “Do you know the legacies of the greater dynasts, Frosteye?”

  Aron stared at the empty road, at the darkened spots where the rock cats and mockers had bled out their lives, and said nothing. The man couldn’t expect to hold lessons now, could he?

  “Mab speaks for the future,” Stormbreaker began.

  “Mab speaks for the future, Cobb speaks for animals, and Ross speaks for the dead.” The words galloped out so fast Aron felt like he had lost the rein on his tongue. Before Stormbreaker could ask another question, Aron added the lesser dynasts as well. “Altar tracks, Vagrat heals, and Brailing finds the truth.”

  Stormbreaker muttered surprised approval, then had Aron recite the Code of Eyrie, all six laws in the Language of Kings. Each time Aron wanted to hesitate, he thought about the lightning and wondered if Stormbreaker could call such terrible energy at will.

  “Impressive.” Stormbreaker’s voice was so quiet it seemed as unreal as his body. “Your pronunciation of Sidhe words is flawless.”

  Aron glanced up at him. Stormbreaker’s face had gone slack, and Aron wondered if he was somehow speaking even though the essence of his being seemed to be on the other side of the Veil.

  “Fae i’ha,” Stormbreaker said in Sidhe, the Language of Kings, and spread his arms outward, then folded them over his chest. “All Fae, close to the heart. To fail to protect the weak is Unforgivable.” Once more, he lowered his hands and clasped them in meditation. “Repeat that, Aron, and know it from this day forward. Fae i’ha. It’s the first tenet in the Canon of Stone, and speaking it will be your oath to follow that tenet, no matter the cost to you.”

  “Fae i’ha.” Aron said the words without hesitation, because nothing in that oath violated his father’s teachings. Kindness, honest labor, honor, and truth. Yes. Protecting the weak was something his father would approve of, without question. At the same moment, Aron decided that even if the penalty came to death, he wouldn’t give his oath to follow a principle he found evil or heartless, or anything that went against the four principles his father taught him to live by—no matter what Stormbreaker demanded of him.

  He turned his eyes back toward the road, feeling weak and innocent and stupid, all at once. He still didn’t want to anger Stormbreaker, but his new oath demanded that he ask a question. “Couldn’t we protect the travelers better if we sheltered with them?”

  “Windblown and Zed will see to them. Our responsibility is to the dead child.”

  Aron once more glanced up at the motionless Stormbreaker, this time with eyes wide. He barely comprehended the fact that questions were permissible before more tumbled from his mouth. “Didn’t the mocker’s venom destroy her remains? What can we do for her?”

  Stormbreaker’s even breathing continued for a moment before he answered. “Her cheville was broken with no dispatching. If she had a trace of any legacy, you know what she will become.”

  “But her people are goodfolk, not Fae. Just common travelers, moving on foot, with no guardsmen, like us.” Aron’s attention shifted back to the road as unpleasant chills racked his spine. “How could she have a legacy?”

  Stormbreaker sighed without moving. “The mixing of Fae and Fury legacies left many remnants—and you never know when a child might be some Fae’s pigeon.”

  Aron chewed his bottom lip. “Fury” used as Stormbreaker had just used the word was an old term. Furies were the shape-shifting races—human in form, with the ability to shift to winged creatures—that had been wiped out by the mixing disasters. Only the Sabor survived, and they lived mostly in Dyn Ross. The Sabor could command the spirits of the dead, as could people with some level of the Ross legacy, and they could shift into fearsome gryphons. Aron was no Sabor, and he had no touch of the Ross mind-talents. Best he could tell, the same was true for Stormbreaker.

  So what could they do to dispatch a mane?

  “Use your dagger, and I will use one of mine,” Stormbreaker said smoothly, anticipating Aron’s questions. “If the child makes a mane, we’ll dispatch her ourselves, in the simplest, kindest way. Have you ever seen a mane, Frosteye?”

  “Of course I have.” Aron stared harder at the road, muscles tensing. His hands started to shake anew, even though he held them tight against his sides. He had seen the writhing, smoky shapes flow across the Watchline and creep out of the tree-break like carnivorous fog, and in the morning, he had found the wasted remains of animals sucked dry of all their life’s fluid. The thought made his teeth chatter. He couldn’t believe he was standing outside at night, with no close fire for protection, only a stone’s throw from a raised shelter.

  “I don’t mean have you seen a mane with your eyes,” Stormbreaker said. “I mean have you seen a mane with your mind, as they truly appear?”

  “No. I—no.” Aron’s jumbled thoughts spun in wide circles. His teeth chattered harder, and he felt like he’d never be warm again. Gods. The shaking. He had to stop shaking. A low hum started in his ears, competing with the rush of blood from his pounding heart.

  Stormbreaker was speaking again, but Aron couldn’t make out the words. Panting, almost gasping, he tucked his dagger into the waist of his breeches, spread his feet, folded his hands palm up over his belly, and closed his eyes.

  Driven by panic, Aron leaped rather than drifted, hurling his consciousness through the Veil, demanding entrance rather than seeking peace in the normal, careful ways.

  Black nothingness rushed to meet him, a void he had never before seen when he meditated. He swayed in the all-encompassing blackness, but managed to keep his feet anchored firmly on the ground—though the ground seemed less firm than it had before. His heart pounded, pounded, then abruptly slowed, squeezing painfully in his chest. He heard his own ragged breathing in his ears, tried to slow it down, made himself slow it down.

  For a moment, Aron saw nothing at all but that awful darkness.

  Then light blazed so brilliantly he thought his consciousness might shatter from the force of it.

  His head ached, or the essence of his head, since bodies didn’t accompany minds through the Veil.

  Almost immediately, Aron saw far too much laid out before him, more than he had ever seen when he was on the other side of the Veil, from a completely different perspective. He was too high, actually above where his body waited, and he seemed to be able to view leagues and leagues all at the same time. At some level, he realized he had accidentally gone farther through the Veil than he thought possible, that hi
s panic had driven him beyond the meditative state he knew how to achieve—but he had no idea how to rein himself back.

  The night continued to explode around him, from the luminous stars and moons to the thunder of wind in the trees. Aron’s thoughts soared skyward toward all those sights and sounds, expanding over more distance, and more, until he saw what looked like all of Eyrie, splendid in moonslight, yet filled with shadows. In some spots, the shadows seemed darker, and they slithered back and forth, unpleasant and menacing. Aron felt a danger he couldn’t identify, sensed chaos about to froth over the edge of all the dynasts but Ross to the south. The lands of Dyn Ross seemed quiet and still, brooding—almost worried, or worrisome.

  He turned away from the dark mass of Dyn Ross’s Greathorn Mountains, moving his senses north and west, toward Dyn Brailing. There, instead of shadows, he found fire. The Watchline, which stretched the length of the dynast north to south, seemed to be burning.

  Aron fought to pull his mind back into itself, bring his thoughts down to a lower level. He wanted to see only the barn and the shelter and the road. Only the area immediately around him.

  Images wavered. Aron closed his eyes to clear his mind, opened them again, and let his muddy vision clear. This time, he saw dozens of Stone Brothers securing their Harvest prizes and bedding for the night. He saw boys and a few girls struggling against bonds or bindings, even chains and manacles. He saw one group of Stone Brothers lighting tallow in a circular trench and returning to their wagon, which glowed a deep, startling red, almost like flames through a wall of rubies.

  Drawn to the color, Aron wanted to see what was in the wagon—so he saw it.

  Inside the buckboard, two boys fought against ankle ropes and wrist ties while a third, a big one, lay utterly still, head on a straw-stuffed pillow and a blanket tucked tight around his large, broken body. His hair was stained with blood, but it looked like golden frost in the moons-light, and his skin was whiter than unmarked snow. Fluids soaked the blanket, and the boy’s breath came in jerks and wheezes. But it was this boy, this broken boy, who gave off the ruby glow.