A Prince Among Killers

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

  “Hello,” Aron managed as he stopped in front of the friend he had avoided for days upon days.

  Nic’s face seemed to shadow with frustration and unhappiness. “Did I offend you that last day we worked at graal training together?” He spoke in a rush, as if he feared Aron would walk away before he asked his question. “Did you see something in my mind when you possessed my will—something that caused you revulsion?”

  Aron felt more an ass than ever, and he found it hard to force out what he needed to say. “No, Nic. The issue wasn’t yours. It’s mine alone.”

  The shadows on Nic’s face deepened. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re my friend, Nic, and I love you.” Aron was surprised at the ease with which he admitted that to Nic. He had never expressed such emotion to Zed or Stormbreaker or even to Dari, though he had felt such warmth for all of them. “I can’t help loving you, and neither can anyone else.”

  Nic obviously didn’t understand Aron’s many meanings, nor did he grasp the full nature of the task Aron faced. “I’ll come with you to the Ruined Keep,” Nic said. “I know I’ll be slow on the trail, but—”

  “Thank you, more than you know, but I have to do this alone.” Aron extended his hand, and was gratified when Nic shook it. “When I come back, I promise I’ll be a better companion, if you’ll allow it.”

  “I will,” said Nic, “though she might be a different story.”

  He nodded toward an alcove in the Den wall, where Aron saw Dari standing behind a slight cover of newly budding ivy and morning roses.

  “Please, Aron.” Nic’s tone dropped to a pained whisper. “Don’t leave her confused and uncertain. I can’t—it’s hard to see her so wounded.”

  Nic’s words burrowed into Aron’s mind, and he well remembered how he used to hate Stormbreaker for hurting Dari’s feelings. Now he had done the same thing, though his reasons, at least in his own mind, were noble enough.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Nic,” he said, keeping his gaze on Dari lest she slip away before he could speak to her. “At least I hope I will.”

  “You will,” Nic called as Aron made his way to the alcove. “I have faith in you, as always.”

  When Aron reached Dari, she looked as furious as he’d ever seen her. He didn’t raise his arms to defend himself when she drew back her hand to slap him, and after a moment, she lowered her palm with a squeak of frustration.

  Aron waited for a moment, until he was certain she wouldn’t change her mind about hitting him, then pulled her to him, saying only, “I’m sorry.”

  It was the only explanation he could offer, and the complete truth, which she seemed to sense. When she pulled back to gaze at Aron, he kissed her, briefly, just enough to remember the sweetness of the weeks they had spent together. The days that she had, at least in part, been his. He wouldn’t trade that time for anything, but neither could he continue to enjoy her, or keep falling more and more deeply in love with her, when the rational part of his mind understood that her fate lay elsewhere, with someone else.

  “Aron,” she whispered against his ear, her voice thick with emotion. “What did I do?”

  “You’ve been perfect,” he said as he held her in a tighter embrace. “You are perfect. But I’m not. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

  For long, beautiful moments, they stood together without speaking, until Aron could almost—almost—pretend that nothing had changed between them. He wanted to tell her more, maybe everything. Words flew through his mind, forming and rising, then fading to nothing. Dari’s fingers trailed across the back of his neck, and Aron ached to deny everything he knew, or work to overturn it.

  Surely his knowledge gave him an advantage.

  He could fight the vision, make sure that tree never grew—

  But what would that mean for Dari?

  That she would be forever halved, separate from her true self, her true love, her true fate?

  Dari’s voice seemed like a sweet, fragrant breeze through his soul, as she tempted him with, “Tell me what you saw on the other side of the Veil, Aron.”

  Aron closed his eyes and pressed his face into Dari’s fragrant hair. He kissed the side of her head, fought with his better and worst natures another few seconds, then gave the only right answer he could imagine.

  “I saw a tree, Dari.”

  She banged her fists against his shoulders. “You’re not making sense, and you’re making me angry.”

  Aron turned her loose and managed to smile at her. “Then I should go. I don’t want you any more furious with me, today of all days.”

  Dari stared at him, and for a moment he feared she would cry, and break down his resolve to let her go, to let fate take its natural course in her life. He had to walk away from her before that happened, so he did, figuring that he was likely increasing her confusion and rage—at least for now. Aron knew better than to try to explain what he had seen on the other side of the Veil, since neither Dari nor Nic had shared his vision, and both would deny it. Besides, Aron couldn’t say if he had seen what was destiny, or simply what should be, for the good of everyone involved, and of Eyrie.

  All he knew for certain as he left Dari behind was that no matter how much he wanted Dari for himself, she did not—and would never—belong to him. Yet he couldn’t be angry with her or with Nic, or even with Stormbreaker for continuing to enjoy her company, unaware of what the future would likely bring. Aron couldn’t form that shield of hate and anger he had used so long to survive. This time, he could only hurt, and nurse his inner wounds to the best of his ability, and try to take each day as it came.

  First the trial, then, if he survived, the drawing of his first stone.

  And after that, Stone’s visitors—supporters and attackers alike—would begin to arrive, and fate would strike as it would, leaving the future as uncertain as the day Aron had faced Harvest.

  Aron’s next stop was in front of Iko, who stood between him and the courtyard’s gate. “You haven’t intervened this time, and you won’t.”

  “I haven’t, and I won’t.” Iko touched his chest with his fist to make his assurance a vow. “This is your trial, Aron. You must meet it or fail it on your own.”

  “And if I don’t survive—”

  “I will take careful care of Tek, and see that she lives a long and healthy life.” Again, Iko touched his chest, and Aron gave him a bow of thanks. He didn’t need to belabor any points with Iko, who was as much a brother to him now as his brothers of the blood had been. He didn’t always understand the Sabor, but he had come to appreciate and honor Iko, and Iko seemed to feel the same way about him.

  Aron’s final and most unexpected supporter met him just on the other side of the Den gates. Lord Baldric looked as he usually did, large and powerful and slightly unkempt, though his expression was more troubled than Aron was accustomed to seeing. Lord Baldric scrubbed his hand across the top of his bald head, and seemed even more uncomfortable as Aron approached him.

  Aron thought he might know why the big man had come to see him off, so he said, “I give you my word I won’t use my graal. I’ll face this test like all the Stone Brothers and Sisters before me, and rise or fall on the strength and speed of my blades and my wits.”

  Lord Baldric shook his head, the look of distress on his face deepening to outright upset. “Don’t promise me that. Perhaps I’ve been wrong all along, Aron. It’s your legacy, after all.”

  Aron managed the shock of hearing those words as well as he thought he could, remaining silent until he thought he could make an intelligible response. After a time, he put his hand on the Lord Provost’s elbow, as a nephew might touch a fractious uncle whom he nonetheless loved and respected. “Thank you. But I believe you’ve been right, Lord Baldric, at least when it comes to my carrying out the duties of the guild. If I use unfair advantage, I won’t have the respect or loyalty of my Brothers and Sisters.”

  Lord Baldric’s grunt of assent was almost comforting. He withdrew from Aron’s touc
h and began to walk away, but as he went, he grumbled, “Stay alive, boy. I’m preparing a host of fresh stones to be drawn tomorrow, and we’ll need your strength and skill to hunt these monsters.”

  Along the battlements, Triune’s bells rang to announce Aron’s trial. He let the chimes set a pace for his steps as he made the journey along Triune’s western wall, winding from the Den courtyard to the entrance to the Lost Path alone, as was custom. Every few minutes, he checked and rechecked his weapons, long after the bells fell silent and Triune returned to its normal rhythms, but for Aron being absent from them.

  When he reached the side gates, he found Stormbreaker waiting for him, as Aron had known he would be. The last person any apprentice faced before his trial was his guild master, so Aron faced Stormbreaker, who said nothing, and didn’t need to say anything.

  “I’m ready,” Aron said after his guild master hugged him.

  Stormbreaker nodded once. “I know you are. Fight well, Aron.”

  Stormbreaker held himself in check for a moment, then placed his hands on Aron’s head and whispered what sounded like a quick prayer. Aron took it for a blessing, though he hoped Stormbreaker’s words hadn’t summoned any of the frightening gods or the terrifying goddess he had dealt with so often in his nightmares and visions.

  He separated himself from Stormbreaker, and gave his guild master one last look. When he saw this man again—if he saw him again—their relationship would change, though Aron couldn’t really say how. The thought made Aron sad, but also excited. He wanted to make Stormbreaker proud of him one more time, this most important of times, and that wish propelled him out of the safety of the castle’s massive walls.

  When the gates of Triune slammed shut behind Aron, leaving him alone in the cold mists of the Lost Path, he felt fear just as he had not so long ago, when he and Galvin had made this journey together. Yet he felt different, too. Less nervous. More determined.

  He set out at a rapid pace, covering ground quickly, intending to get as close to the Ruined Keep as he could before night descended. His only chance was to reach the fortification of those walls before the worst of Eyrie’s predators filled the land between Triune and the tumbledown stone fortress that held a measure of food, water, and extra weapons. He couldn’t see the path beneath his feet, but he felt sure of its direction, and his memory soothed him by marking clumps of rocks and rotten branches he had memorized on his previous journey. There were small dips and hills, but for the most part, the land was flat and straight, though rocky and shrouded by ever-present clouds from the Deadfall.

  If he could keep his speed, he knew he should make it to the Ruined Keep far ahead of moonsrise.

  Aron had been running less than an hour when he heard the first moans of manes, no doubt moving toward the heat and blood they sensed. He let his surge of panic renew his speed, but he maintained his focus on the bit of path he could see through the fog. His heart was already pounding, but he refused to allow his breath to become too shallow, or to slow his progress by drawing his weapons too soon. Though he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t do it, Aron couldn’t stop himself from remembering the impossible odds he and Galvin Herder had faced—and the fact that Herder hadn’t survived his own trial.

  Aron forcefully returned his thoughts to his running, and to the fact that he thought he understood now some of the reasons for Stone’s trial. Yes, it was antiquated and dangerous beyond reason, but Aron realized that the peril had forced him to do what he could to repair damaged relationships before he left. And he would feel pride in himself for weathering this test of his skill and intelligence. Also, his first combat and first hunt would seem easy compared to this.

  The moaning of the manes rose again, this time closer.

  Aron told himself to stay steady, but when the howling of rock cats joined the eerie keen of the dead, the mists began to feel colder and thicker.

  “I can do this,” he said to himself, gasping as much as speaking as he forced himself to run even faster. He estimated he was over halfway to the Ruined Keep, and likely much closer. Another fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and he would reach it and be able to set up his defenses for the night.

  The prowling manes moaned again, joined by the feral screech of rock cats from behind Aron.

  He clenched his jaw.

  The predators were herding him. If he ran forward, he would find the manes, but if he retreated, he’d have to battle the rock cats.

  Even as he realized this, the sound of the cats ceased in mid-warble. Aron thought he heard the cry of one of the beasts dying, then the choking hack of another. Like something had sliced open the cat’s throat and left it to bleed its life onto the rocky ground.

  He stopped running so fast that pebbles and branches sprayed outward from his feet, striking nearby rocks with too-loud clatters and thumps. Aron stood still, breathing so loudly he could hear little else until he managed to get control of his body.

  The Lost Path went unnaturally still, and instinct loosed his graal even though he struggled not to use it.

  Something was off.

  Aron’s mind hummed from the wrongness, and the sensation was so strong he had to believe he would have noticed it, legacy or no. Even the air and mists felt unnatural, if anything could, in fact, be natural along the worst miles in all of Eyrie. His first thought was that some lethal type of mocker had attacked the cats and frightened away the manes, but that didn’t feel correct to his instincts.

  From somewhere behind Aron, he heard a rustling and crunching along the path, almost at the same time as his graal absorbed and deflected a hot wave of menace. The sensation crested and broke across his face like a hot curtain of flame.

  Not real fire. No.

  It was legacy energy.

  Aron gripped the hilt of his blades, then thought better of it. He started running toward the Ruined Keep again, this time pushing himself beyond all reasonable limits. His pulse roared in his ears, blocking out all other sounds except the inexorable crunch of gravel behind him.

  Aron pumped his arms hard, driving himself harder with each stride. He leaned forward, digging his toes into the rocky ground with each long stride. His focus narrowed to the thought of getting to the fortress, because that part of his plan was the only aspect of his survival strategy that was still viable. The rest of his ideas about how to survive the night had just been shattered, and he needed time to regroup, time to think.

  He knew it was time he wouldn’t get.

  Aron had been prepared for any number of beasts, birds, and even the blood-hungry dead attacking him in force. What he hadn’t thought to prepare for—what he hadn’t imagined he would need to contend with—was what tracked him with increasing speed.

  Human predators.

  Aron sensed skilled and seasoned minds bent on murder. These were hunters with no heart and no conscience, and they shared only one unified thought that pounded down the path toward Aron as steadily as their boots.

  His name.

  Aron Weylyn, once Aron Brailing of Brailing.

  Aron was their quarry, their prey. He knew that as certainly as he knew the rest of the brutal truth—that he had very little hope of escaping them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  ARON

  Fog distorted the landscape of the Ruined Keep until Aron could see nothing but twisted, dark shapes looming like giant beasts all around him. The pounding of his heart competed with the crush of his boots against the path’s rocks and branches.

  His pursuers could hear him, just as he could hear them.

  Would that he were a Sabor, with the talent to walk the earth without making a sound. Aron’s jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

  The running footfalls behind him grew louder.

  Another few strides …

  He had only seconds to live.

  He didn’t even have time to concentrate enough to use his graal. Gods, but he should have practiced more!

  Aron reached the door of the Ruined Keep and smacked his hands
against the rough wood to slow himself. His arms felt stiff and jerky as he shoved the outer bolt aside and charged into the Keep’s entry room, which was about the same size as his bedchamber. Dim, gray sunlight illuminated the square, foggy space as the door banged shut behind him. He slid the inner bolt into place, then turned and clambered up a stack of ale barrels and crates of dried meat. Dust clogged his nose and made his eyes run, but he reached the darkness at the top of the stack just as his pursuers threw their weight into the door.

  The ancient wood splintered and cracked, letting in more light and fog.

  Aron snatched up one of the smaller barrels and held it to his chest as he closed his eyes and hurled his awareness through the Veil. The abruptness of the transition between states of awareness rattled his senses and sapped him like a day-long hike. His breathing took on the sound of thunder, and the next smash against the door of the Ruined Keep blasted against his ears like a mountain exploding at its core. The sound hurt Aron so badly he staggered backward, teetered on the stack of crates, and let out a grunt of pain as his shoulders and back smacked against the jagged rock wall behind him. He strained every muscle to regain enough balance to raise the small barrel over his head.

  The door below him broke open, and at the same moment, he hurled the barrel as far as his strength would allow. With much of his remaining vigor, he threw up a thick mental shield around his essence and his graal.

  The barrel crashed against the far wall and shattered into a wash of ale and splinters as four blond, muscled men in hunter’s leathers tore through the archway and rushed past Aron, targeting the noise made by the wrecked barrel.

  Two had bows. Two had broadswords.

  All four bore tattoos on their corded necks—a Great Roc clenching arrows in its talons.

  Aron cursed to himself.

  These were warbirds. Altar hunters, with great copper waves of tracking graal spilling from their shoulders as they used their mind-talent to locate their prey. When they found him, he’d be dead before he had a chance to speak. It was kill or die—and he had to kill them all, as fast as possible.