Assassin's Apprentice

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

  Windblown stared at the tall boy, but Galvin didn’t react to the scrutiny. Aron waited for Windblown to turn on him and Zed, to start lecturing them and handing out punishments, but instead Windblown said, “From where I stood, Galvin, you had your share in that carelessness. Why did you leave the gate open for the talons to run through?”

  Galvin kept his relaxed stance, but Aron noticed a slight flush spreading across the older boy’s cheeks. It took him a few moments to compose his response, and when he spoke, his words came out too slowly. “Aron ran his female too fast, and he left an inexperienced rider behind him on a full-grown bull. He needed a lesson.”

  “You have no business giving lessons to other apprentices without my leave.” Windblown’s sharp tone made even Aron flinch. He stood still beside Zed, surprised, then saw the weight of the words sink across Galvin’s shoulders until the older boy stooped. As if to be certain the blow landed in the center of Galvin’s essence, Windblown added, “Since you are still an apprentice yourself.”

  A bitter wave of shame and anger flowed across Aron’s awareness, but he knew immediately that the emotions weren’t his own. His graal was giving him a taste of Galvin’s feelings at the continual denial of his final trial and graduation from the ranks of apprentices. Aron wished he could peel the sensation away from him and throw it to the ground.

  “Endurance House,” Windblown said, his voice calmer now as Galvin Herder was offering no defiance or argument. “Three days. I’m sorry, boy, but you and I must be clear on who is master between us. For now, at least, it isn’t you.”

  Without so much as another glance at Windblown or a look in Aron’s and Zed’s direction, Galvin Herder walked away. His breath trailed in a silvery plume behind him as he headed north and east out of the frozen grazing fields, and Aron knew he was complying with Windblown’s instruction. A strange mixture of relief and pity formed in Aron’s belly, and he couldn’t help thinking of his older brothers, and how they often accepted punishment from their father with an attempt to maintain their own pride and dignity.

  But Galvin was nothing like any of his brothers. He never needed to think of Galvin that way, because Galvin had ice around his heart. No doubt, he would avenge himself on them.

  The Stone Brothers around Windblown were dispersing to take control of the Bull and clean the remains of the mare from the pasture. Windblown appraised Zed next, cleaned the boy’s face with his robes, and asked Zed if he was injured.

  “No, High Master Windblown,” Zed said, a touch of pride in his words as he used his master’s title. “Just some bruises and scratches.”

  “Good.” Windblown patted Zed on the head. “We have much work to do on your talon skills. I’m sorry Aron wasn’t more help to you today.”

  Aron looked up sharply at the rebuke, then thought about what Galvin said before Windblown devastated him with those pointed reminders. About the talons, and Aron’s behavior, and the “lesson.”

  Aron swallowed back a surge of disgust with himself.

  He had been careless with Tek, letting her run like that in unfamiliar territory, in such an open space where he could lose control—as he had done. And, Aron realized with an expanding sensation of misery, he had left Zed behind him, even though he knew Zed needed his help with the bull.

  This is a guild, not a stable of wet nurses. The memory of Stormbreaker’s admonishment worsened the discomfort building deep inside him, followed fast by Zed’s argument when he wouldn’t let Aron attack Galvin.

  We’re all Stone.

  And though Aron had no choices on some levels, on other levels, and in day-to-day activities, he had dozens to make.

  This one, he had made poorly.

  Zed had given him a promise of fealty, of service and assistance, and shown him nothing but kindness in all the days he had been at Stone. And how had Aron repaid that? By running off with Tek and leaving Zed to struggle on his own.

  If he truly was nothing but the sum of his own choices, Aron figured his worth had just dropped, and appreciably. He wished he could apologize on the spot, but figured it would be better to wait until they were both back in the Den tonight.

  Windblown didn’t kneel to talk to Zed, as Stormbreaker usually did when he spoke to Aron, but his voice did seem much gentler and kinder now. “If you had let Aron face his battle with Galvin in the hallways of the Den the night he arrived, this might have been avoided.”

  He paused, letting the meaning settle in for Zed, then glanced at Aron, who could only stand with his mouth open and fists starting to double all over again.

  “Galvin would have faced penalty for the fight, but the consequence would have been less. And in turn, he would have had less to prove, to you and Aron, and to me.” Windblown looked back to Zed. “Endurance House, for one day, and I want you to think about what favors you do, protecting Aron instead of letting him gain his own strength.”

  Horror struck Aron like a physical blow, and it was all he could do not to bend forward at the waist to absorb the shock. “But Master Windblown, it was my fault. Zed was only being kind. He was helping me.”

  “If you stand on your own feet, Aron Weylyn, then others will not be forced to carry your weight.” Windblown put emphasis on the name Stormbreaker had given Aron following their dav’ha ceremony, and Aron couldn’t tell if the man was shaming him, poking fun at such an honorific, or simply making a point that Aron needed to live up to the name he had claimed.

  Gravity seemed to grip Aron’s head and pull it down, until he was staring at his own grass-stained tunic and breeches.

  “It’s okay,” Zed muttered to Aron, where only Aron could hear. Aron could tell Zed was trying to sound brave, trying to make him feel better, but it didn’t work at all. Zed gave Windblown a quick bow and jogged away, following the same path taken by Galvin Herder.

  Aron shivered as he watched Zed leave. Then his insides roiled as he waited for Windblown to pronounce his own penalty. By all rights, it should be worse than Zed’s. Maybe even as bad as Galvin Herder’s.

  Perhaps this was it, come so soon. The moment when he would once again face Lord Baldric and go to his own judgment.

  Windblown studied him for a long time, long enough to make him feel so sick he wanted to shout or spit, or do anything to break the tension. Images of Endurance House flashed through his mind, followed quickly by the frightening figures he had seen several times now, at the Shrine of the Mother. His fear of both was surpassed only by the horror of how it would feel to march into the Judgment Arena with other condemned criminals, and face down a fully vested Stone Brother in combat.

  “Stable your talon; then take your Sabor companion back to the Den.” Windblown gestured north. “High Master Stormbreaker will deal with you when he finishes his meeting with Lord Baldric.”

  Aron almost protested, almost demanded an immediate penalty, rather than suffering through the anxiety of waiting. All of a sudden, Endurance House seemed easier than facing Stormbreaker, but Windblown was already walking away, returning to whatever business he had been torn from when the chaos began.

  In time, Aron managed to get himself to move, and he headed over to Iko and took Tek’s reins in his cold, aching fingers.

  “Thank you,” he murmured to the Sabor as he pressed himself into Tek’s chilly scales, grateful to feel the life coursing through her armored body. Even if he didn’t survive, he was fiercely glad Tek would, and he hoped if he did have to go to judgment, Iko would see to the little talon. Though he had no reason to assume it, Aron’s instincts told him Iko would do that, for the talon, if not for Aron himself.

  Iko gave no response other than a grunt, though he did walk beside Aron as Aron led Tek back to the barrier, through it, and toward her stall in the talon barn. When he reached one of the barn’s doors, Iko stopped and turned, obviously planning not to go inside with him.

  Aron paused and considered his next question carefully, fingers inching up and down Tek’s reins as if to search out just the right inquir
y. “So … you won’t interfere in my training or my life, but you’ll save Tek if she’s threatened?”

  “Yes,” Iko said, gazing out across the talon fields, his dark eyes focused on some point in the distance Aron couldn’t see. “I will help Tek if I can.”

  Aron let the reins run through his fingers again and again. “Why?”

  This time, he got no response.

  After a moment, Aron decided he didn’t much care what Iko’s reasons might be. For now, Iko’s answer—and his actions back in the grazing fields—were enough. And whatever penalty Stormbreaker dealt him, Aron knew he would accept it without protest or rancor, even if it meant a showdown with Lord Baldric. He didn’t intend to let Zed down again, or Dari, or his guild master, or himself.

  As he led Tek into the talon barn, Aron had a knifelike flash of his new life continuing to unfold before him. His graal showed him rapid glimpses of longer and longer hours at training, the pain of conditioning his body and his mind, the hardship of overcoming his weaknesses and learning to fight, and more important, learning over and over again what it meant to be part of a guild. He saw yet more nights lying awake, plagued by nightmares of what he wished to do to the Brailing Guard, and equally bad dreams about Endurance House and the strange, dangerous beings at the Shrine of the Mother.

  So it has gone, a voice told him—not his own, yet young like him, and somehow familiar, with a touch of both kindness and sadness. And so it will go. I still hold you to your oath. Don’t forget it. Don’t forget me.

  But Aron had no idea who was speaking in his mind, or how, or why, or what oath was at issue. He tore his awareness away from the sound—and came face-to-face with the vision of a man wrapped head to toe in dark robes, covered completely, in the style of travelers who crossed the deserts of Dyn Altar. The man had a sword, and scarred hands, and murder and violence rose off his shoulders like shimmering curtains of darkness.

  Bandit, Aron’s own thoughts whispered, and he remembered Lord Baldric mentioning such a villain, then hearing about him many more times, from Stone Brothers and apprentices alike. Canus the Bandit. The outlaw who has been murdering guardsmen and villagers alike.

  Aron tried to jerk himself out of his vision, but he remained fixed in place, staring at what had to be a vision of the agent of his own death. He felt a blazing sureness that the man was real, and deadly, and that the man was searching for him as diligently as a Stone Brother who had drawn a stone on one of the Judged.

  The man’s eyes snapped open, and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  Aron cried out and stumbled backward, and the image vanished like sand blown by the wind. Slowly, the dull wood and stone of the barn pushed its way into Aron’s reality, as did the stench of goat blood, heated grain, and scale oil.

  Tek butted Aron in the shoulder, and he grabbed her neck and held on tight, hating the mind-talent that showed him these pieces of his coming days, and the legacy that told him the vision was the absolute truth.

  How could he ever hope to survive the escalation of Stone’s rigorous training and avoid Lord Baldric’s wrath? And how could he ever grow strong enough to face down the criminal his mind had shown him? The man was no better than Lord Brailing, running about the countryside, lawless and killing without mercy or reason, and Aron was coming to hate the mention of the bandit almost as much as the name of his former dynast lord.

  “Why did I see him?” Aron’s words came out a whisper against Tek’s oily scales, and she answered him with a mucky, loud snort.

  Aron wanted to cry, but the day was too much with him, life was too much with him, and he could do nothing but hold his talon and try to breathe.

  That, in itself, was hard enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  NIC

  Nic knew he was falling.

  He grabbed at air, tried to catch some stone or branch, anything that might save him from smashing into the ground.

  Brother save me! I need to fly!

  Fire ignited across his neck and shoulders as blood hammered in his ears. Spit filled his mouth as he tried to will himself to sprout wings and soar away from his doom—but all he could do was fall.

  Nic opened his mouth to scream, but no sound left his throat.

  “Who is he?” Tia Snakekiller’s voice drifted through Nic’s stupor, tapping his mind like a gentle finger.

  Who is he?

  The falling sensation eased.

  Who is… who?

  Nic grew aware of his breathing, of the knifelike pain and stiffness in his legs and arms, and the rough blanket beneath him. When he opened his eyes, he saw darkness and stars and the moons, and a thin canopy of icy dantha leaves hanging far above him.

  A fire crackled and popped, and as Nic pushed himself into a sitting position, he thought he could smell rabbit cooking on the spit. Despite the warmth of the fire and a pile of blankets, cold air chewed into his ears, his elbows, his toes. He didn’t mind the sting of the cold, because it helped his head clear more quickly. Moments later, he worked through the fact that his surroundings seemed familiar, and he realized they were in the same clearing he remembered from several days earlier—still somewhere on the vast and seemingly endless grasslands of Dyn Cobb.

  “I’m sorry I make our traveling so slow,” he mumbled to Snakekiller, his tongue still feeling too thick to form words in any proper fashion. He managed to turn his stiff, throbbing neck enough to see her, to watch as she worked a rabbit hide with her dagger. She wore nothing but her gray robes and a pair of boots, no extra coats or blankets, yet the cold never seemed to bother her. Her dark skin and light hair seemed even more exotic in the firelight, and her hands moved with the same fluidity and grace that marked her words.

  “Who is he, Nic?” she asked again. “This boy you speak to when the fits and fevers come?”

  Nic’s heart stuttered with horror at her question, and its meaning. He managed to glance around the rest of the campsite, and he saw that Hasty, the other Stone Brother traveling with them, and Hasty’s apprentice Terrick, were absent. He figured they must have headed out to find a village to barter for more supplies, if any were to be had so deep and late into winter.

  “I don’t know who the boy is,” Nic admitted. “Or why I go to him. I—I didn’t even know I was still speaking to him. You asked me not to go through the Veil until we reached Triune and I received training, and I wouldn’t cross your wishes on purpose.”

  “Of course not.” Snakekiller kept up her work with the rabbit skin, fashioning it into what looked like part of a lining for boots. She had been teaching Nic her pelt skills whenever he was lucid and able to use his hands with some coordination. “You’re not in your right mind when these things happen. I know that. But with the little training I’ve been able to give you, have you gained any sense if this boy you’re drawn to is a friend or a foe?”

  Nic squeezed his fingers open and closed, testing his strength, but his hands were still trembling from the weakness that seized him after a long fit or fever. “A friend. Or so it seems.”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Nic thought the boy might have saved his life once, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He had only an image of the boy standing before him, shining with a blinding blue-white light as he ordered Nic’s essence back into his body. The scene had the same shimmering, fuzzy consistency of Nic’s memory of flying away from the castle where he once lived, in the trees above Can Rowan.

  Fancy. Just a dream.

  But why did his mind keep returning to the boy when he wasn’t conscious enough to control the direction his thoughts chose to take?

  Nic rubbed his jaws and tried to soothe them into relaxing, so his head wouldn’t hurt so very much.

  Snakekiller put down her dagger and laid aside her pelt. “Do you need a sip of nightshade wine?”

  “No, thank you.” He had been trying to keep himself off the pain-relief mixture, for fear he was beginning to like it overmuch. “I think this discomfort will ease of its own
accord.”

  “Perhaps.” Snakekiller’s hand lowered to the skin at her belt, the one that held the elixir she kept ready for him, for those moments when he felt as though his spine might tear from its moorings, or his skull might crush inward on his brain until he died. “Nic, you may not be able to live without nightshade. Your injuries were grave—I’m surprised you’ve healed as well as you have.”

  Heal. Heal yourself!

  The words struck Nic like a command issued from his father at the peak of anger. It came in the boy’s voice, as a memory, coated in blazing blue light. He knew, somehow, that he had indeed been commanded to heal, and that he couldn’t refuse the order. Not then, and not now.

  The boy did have some power, and he had used it on Nic.

  Against me? For me?

  Or maybe something in between.

  A round of shivers claimed him. He shook all over, rattling blankets from his legs. Snakekiller stood, grabbed up her dagger, and brought the wineskin to him, this time accepting no refusal as she tilted the sweet-tasting mixture against his lips.

  Nic drank without protest, watching moonslight play off the dagger in Snakekiller’s fighting hand. He knew she meant him no menace. She simply never moved a few steps without being armed, weapon at the ready. He had come to understand this across their many days of journeying.

  As his throat accepted the nightshade, then his belly, relief sank through him, pushing back his agony and the chill that was trying to cut to his very center. Snakekiller restrung her wineskin and sat on one of his blankets. She gazed at him for long, quiet moments, saying nothing, but obviously thinking about a great number of knotty problems.

  “We’ll finish the winter in Dyn Cobb,” she announced at last. “You’re too weak to keep traveling through this weather. Three days ago, I sent Hasty and Terrick to find a village agreeable to receiving us, or the Mother willing, a guild house.”

  Guilt trickled through Nic almost as fast as the effects of the nightshade wine. “You’re a High Master with business at Stone. You should leave me behind and make your way to Triune.”