“Pedia i’ha Sten,” Stormbreaker said to the drunken man, his words laced with the force of that thunder.
The second tenet in the Canon of Stone, to which Aron had lately sworn himself each time he recited it. Children and the infirm were to be kept close to the heart. To harm children or the weak was Unforgivable in the eyes of the Stone Guild.
From behind Stormbreaker, Windblown added the next and related tenet. “Pedia n’ha du’Sten.” His voice didn’t carry the untamed power of Stormbreaker’s words, but his tone held the weight of righteousness. “By the third tenet of our Canon, those who harm children or the weak answer to Stone immediately, outside any pronouncement of the law. You have harmed this child before our eyes—and I’d lay bets this isn’t the first time.”
The man snarled a curse in response.
Aron could see the truth on the faces of the other blacksmiths. Two of the men actually turned and walked away, and Aron wondered if they, too, had suffered at this brute’s hands, with no Stone Brothers to witness their pain.
Almost as one, the Stone Brothers and Zed intoned, “Abuse of an innocent is Unforgivable,” as if those words were all the reading of charges and sentencing they would offer before they took action.
The drunken man finally seemed to grasp what was happening, what the Stone Brothers intended to do, and he made a ham-handed grab for the unconscious boy.
Stormbreaker smashed his elbow into the man’s chin so fast Aron barely perceived the motion. The man almost fell, righted himself, and howled as he raised both hands to his now-bleeding face.
“Step away from the boy,” Stormbreaker commanded, already back in ready stance with his swords. “Don’t tempt me to kill you. I’m already too eager to see your blood on my blades.”
The man recovered himself enough to spit at Stormbreaker, who didn’t move so much as a fraction. Then the man growled, “What right have you, interfering between a father and his son? Get out of my camp circle.” He rubbed his chin, then seemed to think better of his attitude. “We’ve plenty of coin. I’ll see that you’re paid for your troubles over this useless bit of skin and bones.”
He made as if to kick the child, but Stormbreaker blocked the blow with his own foot.
The man staggered.
Stormbreaker didn’t.
Aron squeezed his daggers so hard the silver handles felt like they were burning into his palms. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could smell the sour-rag scent of the drunkard’s belligerence and fear.
Fight, he willed, hoping the man would attack. Hoping his remaining friends and family would attack.
Fight.
Fight!
Aron wanted his first real chance to battle beside his guild master. He wanted to yell and scream and stab, and let out some of the anger steaming through his bones. But the man wasn’t moving. He once more got his balance and stood staring at Stormbreaker. After a tense, silent second, he moved a step away from the ginger-haired boy.
Lightning rippled along Stormbreaker’s forearms, and the man moved again, this time several steps away.
When Stormbreaker spoke, his words were tight and harsh. “The flesh of your flesh is your son no longer.”
Aron flinched as he recognized the ritual words he had heard his father speak only weeks ago, though it already felt like years.
The man’s eyes went wide. “You can’t—” he sputtered, but Stormbreaker continued.
“He is dead to you, to his mother, to his brothers and sisters. He is disinherited from you, before these witnesses.” Stormbreaker paused, and more lightning traveled across his shoulders. Wind whistled around the camp circle, but dissipated when he spoke again. “I lay foul any claim he has to your lands or name. He will go from this place, never to return. If he should return, you will give him no welcome.”
“Is it binding?” Aron murmured to Zed, risking a quick glance at his companion. “Can Stormbreaker speak those words for the man?”
Zed nodded, his eyes shining. “Stone can claim an abused child at any time, just like they claimed us at Harvest.”
“What is the boy’s name?” Stormbreaker asked, and when the man lunged forward and tried to grab him, he smashed the man’s eye with another blinding-fast turn of his elbow.
This time, the man went down heavily on his knees and didn’t try to get up.
“Raaf,” the man said, as if at last realizing he was overmatched.
Windblown moved in to stand over the drunkard as Stormbreaker sheathed his swords. When he knelt to retrieve the boy’s limp body, he said, “I’ll call you Raaf Thunderheart until you earn some other distinction.” Stormbreaker kissed the boy’s forehead, and Aron saw what looked like tears gleaming in his green eyes. “You must have thunder in your essence to have survived the likes of this.”
To Aron’s surprise, Stormbreaker didn’t proceed with the rest of the ritual, the words that would have pledged Raaf Thunderheart to the Stone Guild forever.
As if reading the question in his expression, Zed murmured, “Raaf will be given the opportunity to join the guild when he’s older. For now, he’ll be healed and sheltered at Triune, with others like him.”
When Aron didn’t respond, Zed continued, keeping his tone so low only Aron could hear him. “Stone takes all wounded children who need their assistance, plus child-criminals and incorrigibles. Orphans go to the Thorn Guild. Or they’re supposed to. We get a fair lot of them, too.”
Aron pondered this new information.
His father had taught him some about both guilds, but clearly, there was more to know, far more than he ever expected. A new emotion competed with that all-gnawing anger inside him, a wider, broader sensation. Maybe something like pride, that he might one day rescue a child himself, and take the child safe away from some drunken monster.
“Back away with your weapons raised,” Zed told Aron as Windblown, Stormbreaker, and the boy moved away from the kneeling man. They flowed past Zed and Aron, heading for the Stone camp circle. “If that dirt-eater or his people come after us, cut first and consider later.”
Aron did as he was told, giving ground but keeping his eyes fixed on the man and the other blacksmiths. When he tried to swallow, he found his throat dry.
The other five Stone Brothers were withdrawing in similar fashion, swords still at the ready.
No one made a move to follow.
Moments later, Zed and two of the Brothers were running toward the barn to retrieve horses.
Stormbreaker placed the child on the ground in front of the nearest tent and began to minister to the wounded boy. Aron sheathed his daggers and stood at Stormbreaker’s side in case he was needed. Three more of the Stone Brothers began digging the tallow circle again while a fourth posted himself as guard between the hostile camp circle and their own.
Meanwhile, Windblown unlocked the cuffs on one of the shackled boys. “Gather your things and help your guild master,” he told them. “You’ll ride out tonight.”
“But it’s less than an hour until full dark,” Aron said, then smacked his hand over his own mouth.
Windblown gave him an icy glare. “You’d do well to learn when silence suits you.”
“A few of our Brothers have to leave with Raaf, and they have to let the boy’s people see them ride out.” Stormbreaker sounded distracted as he rubbed a bit of salve on the boy’s cut cheek. “As the night grows long and they drink more, those men might be tempted to try to take him back.”
Stormbreaker let out a breath, and his next words sounded tired, as if the conflict had drained all the force from his will and body. “You did well, following Zed’s lead, but don’t be too eager to fight, Aron Weylyn. Spilled blood always comes at some cost.”
At this caution, Aron had to force himself not to frown—and he barely got his body to bend in the bow of acknowledgment.
Stormbreaker nodded at Aron’s bloodstained breeches. “Go now, as I instructed before, while you still have a bit of day left to you. Clean
up and do what you can toward your own healing—but pay heed to the time and the angle of the light.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ARON
I can do it.
It was a bold plan, but possible.
And this, more than anything, might grant him some relief from the turmoil always lurking at the edges of his own mind. All else in his life remained little more than a blur, as it had for all the hard days of riding and training and failing and knowing only small successes. Paths, byways, finally now a wide section of great road clogged with so many travelers Aron could scarcely keep track of it all. But it was hard for him, where they rode now.
The Brailing Road.
Seeing those words carved into a pylon a day ago had set him to his current line of thinking, and brought him to the realization that he couldn’t wait until his training with Stone was finished, until the war ended, until he had a legal chance to address his family’s murderers.
Aron scowled at the thought of the name he had carried from birth until his claiming by Stone.
Brailing.
His rising anger forced him to hesitate as he tried to slip through the Veil. His fists clenched in the grass beside him, tearing out thick green blades. Violet hues of sunset played off the surface of the little pond and turned Aron’s reflection into a horror of waves and lines. When he thought of being divested of the name “Brailing,” he now felt nothing but a fierce joy mingled with relief.
Behind him, a thin line of dantha trees swayed in the light breeze as in the distance travelers finished boarding their animals, cleaned up from dinners, and lit tallow lines circling encampments.
May Raaf Thunderheart and his keepers travel safely, Aron thought, though he didn’t direct that plea toward the Brother of Many Faces. He was through with the Brother, just like he was through with the Brailing name.
Aron took a centering breath, and his nose stung from the chilly air. The nights were getting cold now, colder each night that they traveled. They were almost out of the dynast forests, close to the flatlands. Smells had changed from loam and leaves to dust and cooking from increasingly more frequent villages and towns Aron couldn’t name and didn’t care to. The sooner they got to Triune, the better. Once at the Stone stronghold, he would gladly surrender the hated bit of sapphire circling his left ankle. Anyone who bore that blue cheville should feel the shame and disgrace of Lord Brailing’s treachery.
Murderer. Fiend.
Aron glared at his face in the pond and imagined the ripples to be wrinkles, willed his hair to darken, commanded his body to grow and change to its man-weight and man-size. However long it takes, I will be the one to seek out Lord Brailing, or his sons, or his sons’ sons. One day, that monster would pay for the blood he spilled along the Watchline.
It took Aron another few moments to regain control of his temper enough to slow his breathing and use the light on the water as a focus point. The tap-lap, tap-lap of wavelets against wet dirt helped him ease into a mental rhythm. The world around him fell back a pace, then two, as Aron’s consciousness at last settled enough to slip through the Veil.
As Dari had taught him across their training sessions, he made no attempt to shift his focus, but instead took stock of his enhanced perceptions. The water before him now glittered like dazzling purple diamonds, so bright he had to narrow his eyes to bear the gleam. The pop and whish of fish breathing and feeding filled the air, along with the rustle of grass moving beneath the cool winds and the loud rush of dantha leaves behind him. Travelers spoke in shouts and whispers, and if Aron chose to, he could concentrate until he eavesdropped on any conversation he chose. Often, he did so, but tonight, he had other purposes in mind, and he needed to hurry before sunset.
First, to be true to his word and charge, Aron let his thoughts dwell on the ache and burn of his legs. He stretched his mind’s power into the broken skin and the few weeping sores that remained near his knees, urging his body to heal the rents and stave off infection. He gave the tissue warmth and blood flow, and at the same time, eased his own pain enough that he would be able to walk without pointing his knees east-west and waddling like a waterfowl.
When he felt like he had done enough to ensure another day’s riding, Aron turned his consciousness to the essence of his graal and made certain that it seemed dull and weak.
That was getting as easy as breathing, just as Dari had promised.
Now, he formed a filmy “cover” of thought around himself, which would shield his audible thoughts so that anyone more than an arm’s length from him couldn’t easily ascertain what was in his mind. Dari said he had learned that trick better than most Fae, and his graal likely gave him a natural affinity for it.
When Aron completed these precautions, he eased his awareness away from his body, the pond, and the travelers’ shelter. This part of being on the other side of the Veil was a lot harder. Movement, or more specifically, controlling movement. Most of the time, when people meditated, their awareness hovered right next to their tangible self, so close they could still hear their own heartbeat. His own body, his immediate surroundings—that’s usually all Aron could see.
Tonight, alone and unchecked, he intended to move so far away from himself that he couldn’t even catch a glimpse of his own body. He kept going, aiming for someplace high above the people and trees, where he could see for endless leagues and search out his targets. A small amount at a time, he moved forward and upward, seeing first the shelter and nearby woods, then more. Forests and roads. Huts. Villages. Towns.
At first he moved south, slowly.
East, slowly.
His perspective blurred and a wave of nausea almost sent him spinning back into his waiting flesh and bones.
Careful.
Slow.
Careful.
He breathed in time with his own internal cautions.
Slow. Slow. Take your time. Look.
He paused a few breaths to glance back at himself and make certain his heart was still beating. The image of his body seemed no more than a faintly glowing speck on the ground, very far below him.
Then he moved on. Farther. Higher.
This was dangerous, he knew that, but he had survived such a journey once before, during the battle with the manes. And he had done that by accident. Surely it was much safer taking such a trip on purpose.
Soon he could see that the roads of Eyrie teemed with people. Fires blazed along dozens of byways. But Aron was searching for one byway in particular. A small one, insignificant to most, far in the middle of nothing.
He let his heart guide him, let his instincts pull him, until gradually his surroundings seemed a bit more familiar. Then very familiar.
These woods, he had traveled before, hunting with his fathers and brothers. If he flew east, he’d be over the thick part of the forest, and soon at the dark, deep trenches of the Scry. If he flew south, he’d find the small mountains between Dyn Brailing and Dyn Ross, and farther south, he’d see the mists of the Deadfall.
He was almost home. Almost back to tiny spot in the scrub grass and dirt that he knew so, so well—and then he was standing in the muck of his own hog pen.
And standing.
And looking.
And blinking away startled tears.
A cry of rage rose in his depths, and before he could stop himself, he loosed the fierce noise on the other side of the Veil.
The shout blew out of him like an urgent howl of ear-crushing proportions, rattling Aron’s senses as if a boulder had exploded right beside his head.
As his essence vibrated from the error, he was pretty certain that his cry had been audible to anyone on the other side of the veil. His “cover” contained thoughts, not actual noises.
Stupid. Stupid!
He tried to get hold of himself, tried to shake off the failure as best he could, and somehow managed not to curse aloud and add to the mistake.
The essence of Aron’s feet rested on black, dry mud, so brittle it snapped at the slightes
t movement of his toes. It was as if some unimaginable heat had scorched the moisture from the earth itself, consuming hogs, slops, fence, and all.
Everything.
Everything was burned.
The barn—gone.
The house—nothing but sticks and ashes.
Except for a bit of burned detritus, all traces that a family had lived in this small space, deep in the reaches of nowhere, had been totally erased.
Aron found breathing difficult as an inner pain claimed him.
Dari’s people called the other side of the Veil the “world-carved-over-the-world,” and Aron now grasped that description more than he wished. Each charred bit of his family’s barn, his family’s ruined home, seemed so vivid it almost had a life of its own. He could see each blackened furrow in the bits of wood, sense the patterns of smoke and burn on nearby trees, and even trace the crumbling tracks of a wagon in the dirt near where he stood.
His gaze sharpened on the track, and he mentally compared it to what he remembered of his family’s wagon.
Then he followed the track away from the ruined house.
It moved in the opposite direction from the path Stormbreaker had taken with Aron and their party on Harvest, almost directly toward the woods and the Scry.
Cayn’s teeth. Aron sobbed quietly to himself. They ran to the Guard, not away from them.
Surely his father had known better.
Aron remembered the conversation between his father and Stormbreaker, and added up the fact that Stormbreaker had warned Wolf Brailing to take his family and flee. Stormbreaker had gestured, had shown Aron’s father the direction from whence the soldiers would come.
But Father would have realized he could never move fast enough to outstrip mounted guardsmen, not with small children and a wagon pulled by one old ox barely worth its feed.
Aron kept following the wagon tracks, until they turned off the byway onto a hunting path.
You tried to take them into the woods.
Aron realized he was speaking as if some ghostly remnant of his father could hear him, but he couldn’t help himself, or the awful, queasy misery roiling through the essence of his body. He drifted forward, needing to see, but not wanting to see.
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