Dari’s smile was gentle, and heartrending. “I wish I could believe you.” She stood slowly, smoothing her gray robes, and gestured for Aron to rise as well. “I’m not ashamed of my Stregan essence, Aron. Please understand that. I just know how … alien it must seem to you.”
And to Stormbreaker.
She didn’t say that aloud, or even through their lingering mental connection, but Aron knew that was what she believed. That Stormbreaker could muster no interest in her because she was, at base, Fury and not Fae.
She had to know that wasn’t true, and she had to know he didn’t feel that way either—didn’t she?
“I’ve never discussed what happened that night with Stormbreaker,” he said, hoping to spare her feelings as he joined her by the chamber window, paying little heed to Blath, who sat quietly nearby.
“Blath spoke to him after we returned.” Dari nodded in Blath’s direction. “Stone had to be informed about Canus the Bandit’s activities in Dyn Cobb, and Stormbreaker had to know that rumors of Stregans in Eyrie might begin to appear.”
Aron wanted to take hold of Dari and turn her to face him, but he thought that might be too forward. Somehow, he had to reach her, break through that wall she seemed to have constructed between them since that fateful bandit attack. “Stormbreaker hasn’t asked me any questions about you. What you were like when you changed.”
Dari’s expression shifted to sadness, then anger. “I suppose I should be grateful for his disinterest.”
Now Aron wanted to groan. Was there ever a right thing to say to this girl? He was beginning to believe there wasn’t. Dari felt farther away than ever, and he knew he was the cause of it, though how to mend the situation eluded him completely. If Zed didn’t come back soon, Aron realized he might start talking to Iko, or even Raaf, just to maintain his sanity.
Aron had been counting days as Lord Baldric stalled Eldin Falconer in his desire to leave with Stone’s orphans, fifty-seven so far, and Zed had been gone two weeks longer than that. As if summoned by his thoughts, Thorn’s High Master stalked past Dari’s window, heading toward the Shrine of the Mother.
The sight of him made Aron think too much about this morning’s dream, and he shivered.
“Making a list of candidates was a plausible reason for delay,” Dari said, following Falconer with her eyes as he passed. “This latest bunch of excuses from Lord Baldric—the late-season chill, and the whole bit about waiting for messengers to return with release letters from village elders and possible long-lost relatives—it’s a stretch.”
Aron nodded. He had watched as the Thorn Brother observed training sessions, and he had seen the man attempting to interview any unattached child he passed. Everyone seemed kind and tolerant in their dealings with Falconer, but he rarely gained more than a few minutes of polite interchange with anyone.
At best, he had gained permission to leave with four children, and three of those were incorrigibles who would likely steal his purse and robes and be back at Triune by dawn the day following his departure.
“Galvin Herder has petitioned Lord Baldric to allow him to go to his final trial. Again. Did you know?”
Aron tried to hold back his frown, but could not. He did know, but only because he had overheard the argument while hiding around a corner, waiting to ambush Galvin in the Den and get a head start on the night’s inevitable battles. The sight of Galvin so desperately making his demands to Lord Baldric had averted the confrontation, and added to Aron’s troubled thoughts and no doubt his more active dreams.
“Perhaps the Lord Provost will allow him satisfaction,” Aron murmured, trying to be gracious even though he knew Dari held Galvin in no greater esteem than he did.
Dari relaxed a fraction. “You have the box today, do you not?”
Aron averted his gaze from Falconer before he had to look fully at the Shrine of the Mother. More often than not, especially after such an active night of dreaming, the sight of those stone pillars made him dizzy and weak. “Yes. I have the box.”
“I don’t know how you stand that, Aron.” Dari faced him, and Aron was pleased by the concern radiating from her beautiful face. “I don’t know how any of you bear some of what Stone puts you through.”
“It’s all necessary.” Aron gave the answer quickly and easily, because he believed it as deeply as he could believe anything. “Who knows when I might have to wait in cramped quarters, maybe for hours, or even days, to stop some rapist or child-killer?”
For a few seconds, at least, Dari seemed totally her old self, accessible to him in most ways, and not so burdened with her own worries. “Do you think you’ll always be so committed to Stone’s aims?”
“Yes.” That answer came easily too, yet Aron fidgeted as he gave it, sensing another potential girl-problem in the making. “But—but I do have room in my heart for other commitments. Few men and women are willing to share lives like ours, but we’re allowed to have relationships. With Guild permission, we can take promise-mates.”
Blath coughed, and Dari’s eyes widened before she turned back to her study of the castle byway visible outside her window.
Was she smiling or frowning?
Had he stepped correctly, or made some grievous error?
Aron wondered if he should present himself at the infirmary near the farming quarters and petition to have his tongue removed, but he decided to take one more risk before excusing himself. “I would be happy to escort you to the main kitchens tonight, or tomorrow night if I don’t get out of the box in time. If, I mean, you, if that is, you would like to have dinner with me.”
Blath gave another cough, but Dari laughed. This time when she looked at him, her eyes seemed a little brighter, and her gaze was more direct. “You’re persistent, Aron Weylyn.”
Aron almost thanked her, then wondered if he should be offended. In the end, he opted for, “I hope you value persistence.”
“It can be annoying.” Dari patted his hand. “And at times, endearing.”
Later, in the cool heat of the fall sunlight at midday, as the forge master fastened Aron into the body-sized box where he would stand and observe the world through a tiny slit in the metal door until the master released him, he wondered which one he might be to Dari—annoying or endearing.
Then he wondered if he truly wanted to know the answer.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ARON
Annoying.
Endearing.
Was one better than the other?
Aron did his best to focus on what he was supposed to observe, but his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.
“What do you see, boy?” The forge master’s voice rasped through the box’s metal opening, pushing the scent of chewed roast and cream ale into the stuffy space. Aron couldn’t see the man, but he could imagine the tall, brown-bearded giant. The forge master usually wore nothing but gray breeches during the workday, donning his robes only for meals and after-daylight activities.
How long had Aron been in the box? Three hours? Four? He had lost track, and in truth it didn’t matter, for he would be there until the forge master set him loose. His longest stretch so far had been six hours, and Stormbreaker had brought him two dinner portions to help him recover.
Aron’s stomach rumbled, and his knees and ankles felt numb, but he stared through the opening and gave a full report. “The byway, three pine trunks, the eastern stream three hands below normal, and the eastern tip of the mock battlefield with no combatants visible.”
“Anything unusual?” the forge master’s question was casual, but Aron knew the force of the cuffing his ears might take if he answered incorrectly.
“No, forge master.”
The man sniffed, which he usually did if Aron was correct. “Are you certain?”
Aron relaxed against the warm metal sides of the box for a moment. “Yes, forge master.”
“Your life may depend on certainty. Stay alert.”
Aron closed his eyes and held his breath, bracing for what
came next.
The box swung in a tight circle, around and around and around, propelled on its wheel by the heavy-armed forge master until Aron thought his entire brain must be spinning. It was hot in the box this time of day, even so late into the fall, and the combination of hours and fatigue and heat and the smells of the forge master’s lunch made Aron’s stomach lurch as the box stopped.
Facing Endurance House, and beyond that, the Shrine of the Mother.
Aron turned his head, feeling his pulse surge in his ears.
By the Brother’s grace, he would not be left in this position terribly long.
The forge master’s boots ground against the rock of the forge yard as he strode away.
And time began to pass and stand still, and stretch and pull in ways Aron couldn’t begin to explain.
Now and again, he glanced in the direction he was supposed to study, but almost immediately, a silvery light would flare from the Shrine, a light Aron could imagine his dangerous Goddess striding through and reaching beyond to grab hold of him and finally force him to accept one of her terrible “gifts” or “blessings.”
I am no oathbreaker. I will not become an oathbreaker.
Even with the blessings of a Goddess, he would not surrender that bit of himself, of his true identity, given to him by his father and now fostered by Stormbreaker and Stone itself.
Minutes later—though it might have been much less or much longer—the voices of apprentices rattled through the training yard. Newer voices. Perhaps of the newer apprentices not consigned to the High Master’s Den.
“I’m the Bandit,” one boy said.
“No, it’s me today. I’m Canus, and I’m going to kill your soldiers and take your winter stores!”
Eyes closed, Aron frowned at the admiration in the boy’s voice, and he wished he could wheel the box around and confront the two upstarts about holding a criminal in reverence.
You’re Stone apprentices now, he wanted to tell them. Canus the Bandit is your prey, not your hero.
The sound of practice swords clattering against each other blotted out his next thoughts, and he dared a quick glance at his target area. More eerie light from the Shrine. Some odd darkness rising off Endurance House. Nothing else that he could see in his cursory appraisal. Aron closed his eyes again as the bells on the battlement rang, announcing the return of members of the Stone Guild who had been away. So many were out hunting, it was impossible to say who might be coming back, but of course Aron hoped Zed was amongst the group, even it meant having Windblown back as well.
He tried to will away the cramping in his calves. There was precious little room to move in the box, but occasionally, he managed to pull himself into a fael’feis pose to stretch out his back or give his knees some relief.
Aron...
The voice was so sweet. So kind and soothing.
What pains you, Aron?
The Goddess was calling to him. Reaching for him after all, intent on capturing him while he was helpless in the box.
I’ll save you. Fear not. I’m coming.
Aron wasn’t really aware of when he fell asleep and started dreaming, but he was more than aware when the forge master smashed his fist against the side of the box and nearly rattled Aron’s heart straight out of his chest. He startled and slammed his head against the warm metal, and a blaze of light from the Shrine of the Mother stabbed deep into his consciousness. The bells along Triune’s battlements began to ring, and the light from the Shrine blazed all the brighter. Dust rose on the byway between Endurance House and the forge yard, as if the Goddess might be striding forth at last to claim him.
Aron babbled out a quick report, including the bells and dust.
What was the pattern of the bells?
He couldn’t read it, couldn’t keep his mind on the stops and starts, on the clans and peals.
A dynast lord? But no, slightly different. Something he’d never heard before.
When the forge master didn’t respond to his report, Aron feared he was about to be hauled from the box to receive his punishment for surrendering his awareness.
Instead, the forge master said nothing, and Aron couldn’t help noticing who was emerging from the dust cloud on the byway. Eldin Falconer’s cardinal robes were unmistakable. Behind him, the light in the Shrine died away as the bells once more gave a set of unusual rings. Aron became aware of Stone Brothers crossing in front of Thorn’s First High Master, Stormbreaker leading the charge, rushing toward Triune’s main gate and keep to greet whoever was arriving. They weren’t drawing weapons, which was a good sign, but Aron’s insides vibrated with curiosity and frustration that he was confined and couldn’t join the procession.
When Falconer reached the forge, he strode straight to the box, swept out of Aron’s view, and apparently came to a stop directly before the forge master. “Who do you have contained within that beastly contraption?”
The forge master took his time in answering. Aron couldn’t see either man, but he imagined the big forge master folding his heavy arms over his bulging, scarred chest. When the forge master spoke, his voice was polite and calm—yet also hard and definite. “I can’t see that being any of your concern, High Master Falconer, but it’s one of our apprentices. A good boy. A strong boy. One of our best.”
The compliment made Aron straighten despite his aching muscles, even as Falconer snorted his disapproval and growled, “What infraction did the poor child commit to earn such a punishment?”
Aron’s eyebrows lifted. For a moment, he thought to protest the misconception himself, but the forge master spoke before he could figure out what to say. “He isn’t being punished, sir. He’s working at his observation skills, his awareness under duress, and his tolerance of small spaces for long stretches—all skills needed by the Stone Guild when we’re about Stone business.”
He emphasized those last two words, as if to make a point that though this was training, it was still Stone business, and Falconer shouldn’t be interfering.
Falconer’s next command was louder and more strident. “I want you to release the boy this minute. This is inhumane, and I won’t stand by and see it done.”
“I don’t need releasing, sir, thank you,” Aron called, then winced as the forge master smacked the side of the box.
“You, get back to your assignment,” the forge master instructed. Then, to Falconer, the forge master said, “That you may take up with Lord Baldric, amongst your other demands. I’m certain he would be receptive to meeting with you, after he receives his guest.”
“What guest?” Falconer sounded confused, then more annoyed than ever. “Thorn doesn’t have these damnable bells breaking the peace every quiet moment.”
The forge master chuckled. “There. You see now? If you had spent time in the box like Aron here, you might have studied Stone’s bells, and then you’d know for yourself that Lady Vagrat has come to Triune.”
Aron actually stood straight in the box and opened his eyes wide. Behind High Master Falconer, the Shrine of the Mother seemed dull and peaceful, and Endurance House was nothing but a building beside the byway.
“Lady—are you—Lady Vagrat?” Falconer’s voice climbed an entire octave. “Rakel Seadaughter has come here?”
“Yes, sir,” the forge master said, but he need not have bothered.
Aron heard no more from the First High Master of Thorn, and was aware only of the man’s cardinal robes as he swept back past the box, heading toward the main gate and keep.
“You.” The forge master’s dark black eyes peered through the slit in the box. “You’ve got quite a bit of energy. Let’s see if we can put it to good use.”
Aron scarcely had time to brace himself before the box gave its mightiest spin yet.
• • •
When the door to the box opened the next morning, Aron fell straight out on the ground, but managed to wheeze out his report of what he had seen and heard in the night, including the slow, sad tolling of the battlement bells as dawn broke. O
nce more, it was a pattern Aron had never heard before, so he could do little save for describing it.
The forge master pulled him to his feet, pounded him on the back twice, hard enough to make him wheeze all over again, and said, “Well done,” as he pushed Aron toward a boy standing off to Aron’s right. “You there. Feed him, and see that he gets more water.”
It was Zed who caught Aron and held him upright, and Raaf who helped Zed steady Aron as he tried to shake the stiffness out of his legs and arms. He grinned at Zed, then felt a rush of concern when Zed didn’t return his joy. The blond boy was more tan than Aron remembered, and taller still, with a man’s bulky muscles now. And he looked beyond grim as he nodded his greeting, turned Aron loose, and handed him some hardtack and a wineskin.
Aron drank half the skin, then crammed the bits of dried meat into his mouth. He glanced at Raaf as he chewed, and noted that the younger boy, too, looked unhappy.
“What?” Aron asked after he swallowed, his aching body growing stiff all over again. “Is Windblown—”
“Herder didn’t make it,” Zed said, avoiding Aron’s gaze.
When Aron could only stand mute and gape at him, Zed added, “His trial. When we returned yesterday, Master Windblown granted Herder permission to go to the Ruined Keep for his trial. He didn’t survive.”
Aron rubbed his wrists, trying to understand what Zed was telling him. “Galvin Herder … trial? Last night? He went last night?”
Aron couldn’t believe it. If he had known, he would have—
What? Gone to the battlements to cheer on the manes and mockers?
Of course not.
Zed pointed to the battlements. “The bells rang for him this morning, when they found him. Dari dispatched his essence—though there was scarcely enough left of him to hold to his cheville.”
Aron realized he had only heard joyous bells after trials since his arrival, never the dolorous tolling he had marked this morning, after his night in the box. He had seen apprentices bruised and bloodied, even scarred—but he had not known a death at trial since he came to Triune. And now Galvin Herder…
A Prince Among Killers Page 14
