Assassin's Apprentice

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

  “And if you get into trouble,” Zed added, grinning as he finished with his own boots, “if you’re late to anything, you’ll spend the day stuck in Endurance House.”

  Aron couldn’t help a shiver. He glanced at Zed, wondering if Zed had ever suffered that punishment. What did happen to apprentices sent to that shadowy, awful little building? Endurance House, the Shrine of the Mother—both felt intricately wrapped into the violent nightmares that had left him bone-weary this morning. And on the other side of all of it, every threat and punishment and bad dream, Lord Baldric and judgment waited.

  “We shouldn’t be late, then,” Aron mumbled, moving out of the bedchamber ahead of Stormbreaker and Zed, even though he had no idea where to go. From the corner of his eye, Aron saw Iko leave his post at the bedchamber door and follow quietly, keeping a distance from all of them as they hurried across the stone floor.

  Zed caught Aron in a few strides and directed him down the main stairway to the front of the courtyard surrounding the High Master’s Den. Stormbreaker followed them at a distance, like a tall gray ghost sweeping down the castle steps. The Den’s wooden front doors stood slightly ajar, as if awaiting their arrival, and Aron could see the harsh rainfall outside.

  He slowed.

  Zed reached the front doors, grabbed the edge of one, and looked back at Aron. “First thing every morning at Triune, we dance the fael’feis. If you learned a celebration of the air from your family, you can stand in the back and use it—lots of people do their own celebrations. If you don’t have a family version, just follow me and learn Stone’s.”

  Aron had seen the fael’feis performed in the village nearest his farm, and learned a few beginning steps from his father. Soldiers in the Guard did it every day to prepare for the day’s labors, as well as noble families and rectors at the Temple of the Brother, but Aron had never really learned a full celebration of the air.

  “It’s raining,” he said. “How can you dance the fael’feis in the rain?”

  “Weather comes and weather goes,” Stormbreaker said as he reached the doors himself. “We train in all conditions because we must hunt and survive in all conditions.”

  He moved past them and headed into the wet cold of the morning without even raising his cowl over his head, taking himself to the far side of the courtyard. Aron gazed past Zed, through the separation in the doors, noting shapes in the rain that were probably Stone’s other High Masters. On the side of the courtyard closest to him, a few more shapes waited in three small lines, some taller than him, some similar in size.

  The other apprentices, already gathered, staring toward them as if they were slowing down the day already.

  He wanted to groan.

  From the darkened landing a few paces away, Iko sniffed like he might share that sentiment, and Aron decided he liked the Sabor boy a bit better.

  “Let’s go.” Zed tugged Aron’s arm as he dove into the storm, and Aron followed. As soon as Iko came through, Aron closed the doors behind him as the heavens and skies drenched him for his efforts. By the time he joined Zed behind the rest of the apprentices, he was so soaked and chilled that his teeth were chattering. Once more, Iko moved off to a short distance away, watching as the dance began.

  Each step and stretch felt like frozen, clumsy torture to Aron. He squinted at Zed, trying to mimic each lift of the arms, each extension of the legs. It didn’t feel strenuous at first, but as the moments passed, the muscles along Aron’s back and neck began to ache. He ground his teeth, forcing himself onward through the celebration of air as rain splattered into his mouth and eyes.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Zed murmured as they shifted again, to face north instead of south. “Try to let your mind fade into the movements, join with them, flow with them.”

  Aron drew a slow breath, reached forward in mimicry of Zed’s reach—and someone slapped against the back of his head. He pitched forward, going knees and palms first onto the courtyard’s smooth, wet stones.

  A few of the other apprentices laughed as he fought to regain his footing on the slick rocks, most of all Galvin, who had the position right behind him in the formation.

  “You should take more care,” Galvin said as Aron finally made it back to Zed’s side and lifted his left arm as Zed’s was lifted. “You might injure yourself, and that would be a shame.”

  Aron managed the rush of rage through his limbs, then welcomed the warming anger and used it to move better and faster. He kept his eyes on Zed and Zed alone, ignoring Galvin, and directing his mind away from Endurance House and the possibility of being confined there, now or ever.

  Galvin struck the back of his head again, a harder blow, enough to make lights flash in Aron’s eyes, but he managed not to fall. Zed flu-idly swapped positions with him. Wet breech cuffs slapped against stone as the boys behind them shifted position, too. Aron had no doubt Galvin was behind him once more.

  Aron leaned into the next stretch, only to hit stone and puddles again when Galvin jammed his foot into the back of Aron’s knee.

  “Have a care, boy.” Galvin’s tone was even and calm, but when Aron looked at him, the tall boy’s eyes seemed bright at the sight of Aron’s discomfort. “One day you’ll be facing the likes of Canus the Bandit. You’ll need much better balance and skill to survive a combat like that.”

  Anyone not looking directly into Galvin’s eyes might take his words for teaching. An older brother working with a younger brother to be certain lessons were learned.

  Aron knew better. He struggled to erase all trace of emotion and reaction from his own expression. He didn’t need to give Galvin any sign of weakness or indication of pain. Pain seemed to feed this boy in ways Aron didn’t even want to consider.

  Galvin went back to the morning dance, and so did Aron.

  If he got into some spat with this boy, he might be sent to Endurance House, but really, that was the least of his worries. Nothing Galvin could do was worth the risk of Lord Baldric and judgment.

  If he was to stay alive, Aron knew he would have to learn to suffer the likes of Galvin Herder without response—and likely, much, much worse.

  • • •

  Aron passed Lord Baldric at least three separate times on his morning’s travels. He had no doubt that the Lord Provost didn’t usually trouble himself with the day-to-day training of apprentices, and that Lord Baldric probably didn’t make a habit of traipsing around the grounds. The man was making good on his promise—his threat—to watch Aron closely.

  Not knowing what else to do, Aron gave the Lord Provost a wide berth each time he noticed him, and wondered how many times he hadn’t noticed his watcher. He also tried to ignore Iko, who was standing a few paces away as Aron seethed and stewed about Galvin and his nightmares and Endurance House and the rain and everything else. He tapped on Dari’s door, but wanted to bang on it with his fists instead. Going through the Veil was the last thing Aron wanted to do after last night’s urges and his horrible dreams, but he supposed he had no choice in the matter.

  Worse yet, he was still dripping like a toddler just fished from a lake, in part from morning celebration and in part from his journey to and from the forge. His new gray cheville felt cold and heavy against his ankle, and he had to work not to remember the crack and crumble his Brailing cheville made when the stone masons broke it apart. He had no time for soft sentiments. He didn’t even have time to change his wet breeches and tunic. Only an hour for those with legacies to go to training, while those who were Quiet spent their time in meditation.

  Even if Aron could have spared a moment to throw on dry clothes, there would have been little point. From Zed, Aron knew that as soon as he finished his session with Dari, he had to be at the archery and knife ranges, ready to humiliate himself with the infernal throwing daggers he had failed to master during their ride to Triune. After that, he and Zed would head for the stables and talon barns for mounted practice, the forge for weapons construction, the general armory and mock battlefield for practice fig
hting in groups, then back to the grazing fields, lake, and woods to gain experience marking trails and tracking prey.

  Aron didn’t want to admit it, not fully at least, but he was grateful Stormbreaker had left him out of last night’s search. His few hours of dream-filled sleep were better than nothing. He had no idea how any person could stand up to the training schedule Stone demanded, and even envied Dari her right to remain in chambers, maybe catch up on her rest, before she had to attend to her own duties, whatever they might be past his training.

  Dari opened her bedchamber door and gazed at him, from his wet hair to the soiled knees of his breeches. Her dark hair was pulled tight against her head and fastened at her neck, and she wore a simple green robe belted at the waist. Aron noted that her ankle remained bare, and he wondered if she would be going to the forge today, as he had done.

  What would happen when the stone workers tried to band a Stregan?

  Could such a thing even be done without the rock exploding?

  But Aron supposed Stormbreaker and Dari had a plan for such things, so he kept his questions to himself. Besides, Dari looked completely worn-out, and in no mood for chatter. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her frown seemed to be etched into her very essence as she stepped away from the entrance without even greeting him.

  He followed her inside, noting Blath’s silent presence near the chamber’s arched window. The older woman didn’t glance at him, though her eyes did travel to Iko, who remained visible in the hallway until the chamber door swung closed behind Aron.

  Dari gestured to a bare spot in front of her fireplace, and Aron settled himself on the floor, feeling guilt at the way his wet, dirty clothes dribbled muck and mud on the edges of the hide rug nearest his knees. Dari sat down on the rug, closed her eyes, and took a breath.

  Aron recognized her posture for going through the Veil, and quickly assumed his own.

  There would be no time wasted today, not anywhere, it seemed.

  “Be quick,” Blath said in a low voice as she stared outward, into the seemingly endless rain. “A Stone messenger approaches. He bears a summons to the retirement quarters near the Temple of the Brother.”

  “A death,” Dari said with her eyes still closed, even as Aron wondered about the extent of Sabor mind-talents, and how the woman knew such a thing just by looking at the messenger. “And no doubt they believe I have the Ross legacy. I’ll be expected to dispatch the dead if guild members are otherwise occupied.”

  Aron tried to relax his arms, but he was still shivering from the cold and rain. He peeked at Dari again, then at Blath.

  “You’ll have no peace, Dari,” Blath cautioned, staring even more intently into the weather outside the window. “What with training the boy and seeing to duties as a Ross. Such will be your life here, unless you choose to return to Dyn Ross, or better yet, I could take you to—”

  “I’m not leaving Eyrie without my sister.” Dari’s face relaxed into a mask of near-sleep, despite the sharpness of her tone. “My peace and rest will be forfeit, if that’s the price.”

  Aron slammed his eyes closed, determined to go through the Veil as quickly as he could, and do whatever Dari instructed him to do. The envy he had felt when he knocked on her door was long gone now, and he was determined that training him, at least, would be as small a burden as possible.

  Thank you for that. Dari’s sweet voice enveloped him as his mind awakened to the details of her beauty, the green threads of her gown, and each nook and cranny and shadow in the bedchamber. You’re no burden to me, Aron. Many times, you’re the brightest moment in my days.

  Aron wondered if she sensed the rush of warmth that claimed his essence at those words. Everywhere else, with everyone else, he felt so little, so much of numb and nothing mingled with irritation or anger, but with her—with her, he still knew compassion. Perhaps even kindness. He was glad for that, and more than glad for her, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember all the things that frightened him or made him furious.

  We’ll find Kate, Dari, he said, letting the thought be audible on the other side of the Veil. I’ll find her. I will. You’ll see.

  Her perfect image nodded to him, as if believing or wanting to believe every word. Then she beckoned for him to follow her farther through the Veil.

  Now twice as determined to keep his promises, Aron turned his own essence loose, letting it flow toward her as she moved. He had so much to learn, and he knew he needed to learn it fast and well.

  I’ll do it, he said over and over again, keeping the words inside his own mind and heart, private and silent, until he couldn’t sort them from instinct or the whisperings of legacy itself. One day, I’ll be the one to find your sister.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ARON

  Aron’s first week, then his first two weeks and first cycle at the Stone Guild stronghold in Triune passed in what felt like flurries and spinning blurs. His days took on an exhausting pattern of avoiding Galvin Herder and Lord Baldric whenever possible, fael’feis and graal training, then what felt like endless work with weapons, weapon-making, fighting and tracking skills, and training for strength during the day. Iko stood vigil during all of these activities, neither contributing nor intruding. After dinner, the Sabor took his leave for a time, and Stormbreaker and the other High Masters schooled the apprentices in language, mathematics, history, philosophy, etiquette, and protocol. Then, every third evening, Aron would watch as Dari and Stormbreaker resumed the hunt for Kate.

  Especially on those later nights, Aron would reach his bed, convinced he would sleep soundly—but he was rarely so fortunate. Images of the Brailing Guard woke him and sent him pacing through the Den hallways with Iko a few lengths behind him, trying to resist his own murderous urges and ignore the whispers of vengeance that wanted to settle deeper and deeper into his essence.

  So it went, as more cycles passed and the air grew colder, sunlight grew shorter, and time crimped inward and twisted, running too fast at some times, and too slow at others. Too slow, especially during weapons practice during the fourth cycle of the next year, after Aron’s fifteenth birthday.

  “Lift your arm higher,” Stormbreaker instructed at the archery and knife ranges, kneeling beside Aron and helping him to line up his dagger with the target.

  From his vantage point under a nearby evergreen, Iko looked bored and disinterested—though a casual observer would not have been able to note any expression on his blue face at all. Aron’s breath issued in an icy fog, and he had to purse his chafed lips to keep his teeth from chattering. His shoulder was already aching from throwing and throwing, but he hadn’t hit the target enough for Stormbreaker to move it more than a few body lengths away from him. He hurled the last dagger with as much force as he could muster, but it struck the straw bale hilt-first and bounced to the side.

  “Again,” Stormbreaker commanded, and Aron had to swallow a groan. As he collected the four practice daggers and returned to his stance, Stormbreaker said, “You were brilliant at archery and short swords this morning, and I see you carrying water buckets and heavy baskets for hours each day to increase your strength. Training master Wilson told me yesterday that you surpass even the older and more seasoned apprentices at tracking on all terrains and at making trails through thick brush.”

  Aron glanced at the daggers at his feet and the single blade in his hand. “Thank you” was the best he could manage as he tried to keep his arm relaxed and take the respite Stormbreaker’s conversation offered. He couldn’t help thinking of how he had hunted the Scry with his father and brothers, how all that practice had prepared him to be at Stone in ways he couldn’t have imagined. An image of his father’s pleased expression pierced Aron’s heart like the tip of a blade, and he couldn’t stop his quick, deep frown.

  He rubbed his chest with his free hand as Stormbreaker studied him, and Aron wondered if the hurt from his losses would forever be so sharp. Many moons seemed to be passing and yet would he ever be able to turn loose his past, his his
tory?

  Stormbreaker remained in his kneeling position, beside Aron, as he so often did when they spoke or worked together. “The pain of loss, of remembering what has passed beyond your grip—it doesn’t heal, as we discussed when you first arrived. But if you shift your focus to this day, this time, to the sound of my voice, you can lessen its sting.”

  Aron nodded and set his jaw, determined not to lose any of the ground he had gained in putting aside the agony related to the deaths of his family. He stopped rubbing his chest and listened intently as Stormbreaker continued with, “Training master Wilson is particularly impressed with your ability to remain still for long stretches, yet keep your alertness and wits about you. That will serve you best of all when you draw stones on the Judged who choose flight.”

  Stormbreaker’s strange, bright eyes fixed on Aron’s face, filling Aron with a strange sense of pride and worry, all at the same time. “Often it’s the louder, bolder fighters who win accolades in training, but in true hunts and single combats, it’s patience, caution, and intelligent choices that will save your life and bring down your Judged.”

  Aron stood a bit straighter and tightened his grip on the hilt of the dagger. Other apprentices and masters began to pass by, but he ignored them and turned his own mind back to the target in front of him. He stared at the mark on the bale of hay until he could see it, sense it, even feel it in the center of his mind. After a slow, even breath, Aron raised his arm.

  This time, when he released the dagger, the blade flew true—and struck the mark hilt-first, bouncing off again.

  Stormbreaker patted his shoulder as Galvin Herder watched from nearby, standing alone, his hands clenched on his own throwing daggers. Aron had an urge to keep Stormbreaker between himself and the other boy, lest one of Galvin’s daggers go astray and find its mark in Aron’s shoulder or thigh.

  “You hit the bale at the center,” Stormbreaker told Aron. “Striking the target consistently is progress—and quite possibly, it would be enough to gain you time in a battle. Not everyone will attain the same skill with every fighting method.” Aron glanced from Galvin to Zed, who was approaching with Windblown, then stood and dusted off his robes. Loudly enough for Galvin to hear, Stormbreaker said, “Aron, I am needed in the chambers of the Lord Provost to go over the latest messages and news of the war. Would you take the rest of this training block to assist Zed with his talon skills? Your abilities with the animals are unmatched by most of our apprentices, and many of our masters as well.”