A Prince Among Killers

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

  His heart seemed to crush into pieces as he whipped out his throwing knives and sent them spiraling toward the backs of the hunters. One knife bounced wild and wide. The other struck its target, and a bowman collapsed.

  Aron leaped down from his hiding place and swung his short sword.

  He struck the second bowman in his belly, ripping the man open. As blood sprayed across his face, Aron shouted with all the force he could muster. The sound expanded in the Ruined Keep and on the other side of the Veil before Aron jerked his full awareness back to his body. He pulled his blade wide, then jabbed it forward and upward, catching a third hunter in the throat and killing him instantly.

  First blow—last blow.

  Aron’s thoughts rattled against his skull as he yanked his sword free of the dead man.

  The fourth hunter growled and thrust his blade toward Aron.

  Aron stumbled over one of the bodies on the blood-slicked floor and howled as the broadsword’s tip tore into his left side. Agony sizzled along his hips and back, clawing his senses. Hot liquid belched from the wound, streaming down his leg. He steadied his short sword in one hand and gripped his wound with the other, staunching the flow as best he could. The room lurched and spun, and Aron’s awareness flickered as the hunter lifted his broadsword for a killing blow.

  Time seemed to contract as Aron focused on every nuance of the man’s stance and action. The broadsword swung toward him. Aron met the man’s arm with his blade even as he pivoted away from the larger weapon.

  His short sword struck bone, and the impact ripped the weapon from his grasp.

  The hunter howled as he dropped his own blade, his arm collapsing useless to his side. His blood spurted out to mingle with Aron’s on the stone floor, and they both drew daggers, stepping over the dead as they moved.

  “Who sent you?” Aron shouted, trying to ignore the spots flashing in his vision. His hand shook as he pointed his dagger at his foe. “Lord Altar? Lord Brailing? Canus the Bandit—who?”

  The hunter only snarled at him, as feral as any desert predator.

  The man’s green eyes blazed as he used the full measure of his mind-talents to weigh and measure Aron, but Aron deflected this effort with his own graal.

  The hunter flinched backward and shook his head, obviously surprised by the force of Aron’s mental push-back.

  Aron lunged forward and shoved his dagger into the man’s chest and pulled it free for another strike.

  The hunter brought his dagger up just as fast, cutting Aron’s shoulder.

  They both lost their weapons and fell back, slipping on the wet, gory floor.

  Aron hit the ground on his backside, but managed to keep his grip on the wound in his side. Pain flared along his ribs, sharp enough to force bile up his throat, but he got to his feet quickly. With numb, stiff fingers, he freed his last dagger from his belt.

  The Altar hunter flailed and tried to rise, but he slid in the blood and slammed into the stone floor again, his head sounding like a melon as it struck. Aron staggered to him and dropped to his knees, straddling the man’s chest and forcing the tip of his dagger under the man’s chin until more blood flowed across his fingers.

  “Who sent you?” Aron yelled again, this time, putting the force of his graal behind the demand.

  The hunter’s unfocused eyes blinked, and his lips moved, but he didn’t make a sound.

  Aron shoved aside the man’s failing mental defenses and reached into his mind for the information he needed. The man’s thoughts and fears and emotions seemed like no more than nattering birds in the distance as Aron grabbed for the right images, the right sounds and smells.

  What he found were images of the Brother, and of Cayn, bright and vibrant and horrifying. Gods. False gods, and—

  And—

  Aron rejected the image he saw, certain that the hunter had managed to form a lie for him to perceive.

  The hunter grabbed for Aron, then bucked as Aron released his hold on the man’s mind and drove his dagger through flesh and bone, all the way to the stones beneath. The hunter gurgled and twitched once, then lay still as Aron rolled off him and lay panting on the sticky floor. He heard his own pulse, felt his blood pumping through his fingers even as he tried to get his awareness back through the Veil to do what he could to save himself.

  Outside the Ruined Keep, moans filled the mists.

  The manes were coming.

  So much blood.

  There would be an army of them.

  And Aron couldn’t get up. He couldn’t get himself to the upper floors, or even back to the top of the crates and barrels.

  Silver dagger.

  Where was it?

  Still in his right hand…

  He coughed, and knew he was coughing blood.

  The sick-sweet smell of death and injury overwhelmed him as he managed to get through the Veil. The energy drained by the transition nearly sent him into darkness, but he held on enough to shut out the wails of the advancing dead, take the measure of his heartbeat, slow the flow of fluids in his body, and explore the wound in his side.

  It was deep.

  Tears in his skin. Tears in his vessels.

  His mind worked at fever-pace to patch what he could, until he was bleeding in trickles instead of spurts. Even though he was somewhat separate from his body in this state of awareness, he knew he was getting cold, and colder, too cold.

  Dying.

  Still bleeding.

  The manes were coming.

  A shuffling, slithering noise nearby caught Aron’s attention, and he knew it would be a snake. Probably a mocker-snake, coming to get its meal before the dead arrived.

  His vision flickered, and the darkened Keep faded away from him.

  Hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him upward, and Aron tried to will himself into unconsciousness before the teeth and claws of the manes sank into his chilling flesh.

  Moments later, he realized his heels were bumping on stones and someone pulled him along the floor, then lifted him. Up. They were moving up. Higher. Away from the manes.

  When next Aron floated back to awareness, he found himself propped against a wall. Fingers prodded the wound in his side, and Aron groaned as bolts of pain fired with each press and touch. He tried to raise his dagger and stab this new attacker, but the blade was no longer in his hand.

  Heat poured into his side, making him scream instead.

  He was burning. His skin was on fire.

  Then he was choking—someone was making him drink. Bittersweet, thick liquid filled his mouth, then flowed down his throat, numbing him yet waking him. The pain—a little more bearable.

  Aron’s senses buzzed. He realized his eyes were pinched shut, and he opened them to find himself staring at the image he had rejected from the Altar hunter’s mind.

  It was a god. It was the Brother, come to life, glowing with silver-white brilliance.

  Only—it wasn’t really a god, was it?

  It was just a man wearing the mantle of a god, projecting a false image, as Snakekiller had done when she frightened Aron with her hood snake illusion. He knew this was one of his nightmare images, not come to life, but in the flesh. Aron had seen the essence of this man in his dreams and visions. This man had shielded his identity by taking refuge in the image of the Brother, which few in Eyrie would challenge.

  Aron wished he had realized that before, during the weeks this oathbreaker wandered about Stone, seeking unclaimed children. As the truth settled through Aron’s mind, his graal let him see through the illusion as if it were nothing but mist and shadows, and he wondered if anyone would be able to trick him in that fashion again.

  Eldin Falconer, First High Master of Thorn, knelt before him, his dark blue eyes, cropped hair, and thorny benedets illuminated by candlelight. He had covered Aron with rough blankets from the Keep’s supplies.

  “I’ve worked on the wound in your side,” the man said, his voice both harsh and concerned. “But you’ll need time and tending to reg
ain your strength.” He pushed his wineskin against Aron’s lips. “Go on, take another drink. It won’t poison you. At Thorn, our medicines heal.”

  Thorns fester, Aron wanted to say, but perhaps his eyes spoke for him.

  Falconer frowned at him. “You’ve made my task difficult at every turn, but I’m through negotiating with Stone. You’ll come back with me now to Eidolon, where you belong.”

  Aron kept his mouth closed, swallowed what was left of the nightshade wine mixture in his mouth, then wondered if the medicine might be drugged to make him more compliant—or even unconscious. Instantly, he felt thick in the mind. Confused. And the pain in his side seemed to be pushing against the medicine, stabbing at him as if the broadsword were poking his wound again and again.

  Was Falconer armed?

  Aron’s mind dully assessed his new foe, seeing nothing but the cardinal robes and silver bracelets.

  Falconer tended the wound in his side again, this time with graal energy and a paste he produced from a small pouch he took from his belt. Aron didn’t object to this assistance, but he couldn’t understand why Falconer would have sent hunters to kill him, then be attempting to save his life.

  “You can’t be permitted to stay at Stone.” Falconer spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if Aron would have to be infirmed in the head if he didn’t agree with this assertion. “Baldric doesn’t have the resources to train you, to see to it that your abilities are properly controlled. Triune has always been backward in that respect.”

  “I’ve been trained,” Aron choked out, his voice dry and whispery despite the drinks from Falconer’s wineskin. His throat seemed to be failing him. “I’ve shirked some lessons, or I’d know even more.”

  Falconer’s disgusted snort communicated his opinion. “From what teacher? That Ross pigeon?” He fastened his wineskin back to his belt. “She might be a good bed-warmer, boy, but she’s beneath you.”

  Aron’s hand twitched. If he’d had any strength, he would have punched Falconer.

  Falconer sat back and studied Aron. “Your friend Dari needs evaluation and training, but you—you could lead a dynast. In the future, Eyrie may have need of you, and the children you’ll father with a proper and well-appointed band-mate. Right now, Thorn has need of your strength, and in return, we’ll give you education and skills befitting a boy with noble blood and such a powerful legacy.”

  Aron tried again to move, and understood that Falconer’s wine had eased his agony, but left him paralyzed.

  Falconer smiled at him, but Aron found no kindness in the expression. “Have no fear. The effects will wear off, but not before we’re many miles from this hellish place. And I’m sorry about the hunters. I didn’t want to do that.” Falconer’s eyes briefly became distant, and Aron sensed the truth of his words. “After she came to understand the full strength of your mind-talent when you rescued your friends, the Lady Provost was clear in her last instructions. Either you leave with me, or you meet your end, for the good of Eyrie.”

  For the good of Eyrie? Aron wanted to argue with Falconer, to tell him that he and his Lady Provost might be as mad as Nic’s mother, but his mouth and lips and throat were as unnaturally relaxed as the rest of him. He couldn’t so much as make a full swallow.

  “Fate decreed you should survive, so we leave at sunrise, after the manes withdraw.” Falconer set about binding Aron’s ankles with strips of cloth. “The sooner we return to Eidolon, the better. I’ve been away too long—almost three years now, doing the Lady’s work. I’ll dispose of the hunters but leave the blood. Your friends at Stone will assume the worst, and Triune likely won’t withstand the assault that’s coming. The forces of Brailing and Altar—and Mab as well—will tear down the walls of Stone forever. With good fortune, the Cobb and Ross Guard will come to their senses and assist.”

  Disbelief rolled through Aron, and he managed to twitch against Falconer’s hands as the man bound Aron’s wrists.

  Falconer didn’t notice. As soon as the Thorn Brother moved away from him, Aron began working to focus his mind, to go through the Veil and call out to Dari for assistance. He closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles, but the thickness slowing his thoughts wouldn’t remit. He bit his bottom lip and doubled his efforts, but he felt like he was trying to think through several layers of blankets, or find his way down a blind, foggy path.

  Falconer was pulling a bedroll out of a large pack he must have brought to the Ruined Keep with him. “Don’t bother trying to use your legacy. I couldn’t risk you sending word to your little pigeon, so I added some bullroot to the wine.”

  Aron forced his eyes open, though it took effort to move the lids. Falconer’s image was blurry now, and the candlelight seemed dimmer.

  Bullroot.

  What did bullroot have to do with anything?

  “If you had been properly trained, you’d know that bullroot prevents the use of graal.” Falconer unfurled his bedroll. “The damage is not permanent unless you use it too often—and I admit, it’s less reliable in cases of bastard legacies like the storm skills of your guild master. On traditional legacies, it’s quite effective.”

  Falconer shifted his attention to nightly toiletries and devotions then, leaving Aron to his panic and private thoughts. For a time, the Thorn Brother meditated; then he stretched himself on his bedroll and soon fell into a seemingly untroubled sleep.

  Aron fought the wine and bullroot, and whenever he could command a muscle, the bindings on his wrists and ankles. Time and again, he hurled his mind toward the Veil, only to fall short and crash back into his physical body.

  With each passing minute, then each passing hour, he grew more desperate and angry, and more exhausted. It was like being in Stone’s training box, exactly like being in the box, except he couldn’t think well enough to focus his awareness on any one point.

  Falconer slept on, oblivious to Aron’s battle.

  Aron’s mind kept flashing back to the day he was Harvested, to Dari unconscious in the wagons, and how Stormbreaker and Windblown had underestimated the amount of elixir needed to keep her subdued. Was that because she was Stregan—or did those with powerful legacies require larger or more frequent dosing?

  The bullroot might keep him from using his graal, but maybe attempting to use it would give him freedom sooner than Falconer expected.

  Aron mustered his inner resolve and strength, and hurled his awareness toward the Veil.

  Moments later, he collapsed back into himself, unsuccessful, but more determined.

  His lids felt so heavy he could barely keep his eyes open, but he glared at Falconer nonetheless, letting his anger grow until it felt like a stoked fire in his chest.

  Rage.

  Desperation.

  Aron welcomed any emotion. All emotion. Maybe it would help him shed the mental and physical paralysis.

  He launched his mind toward the Veil again. Again. Again.

  Each attempt weakened him, made him more drowsy. If he could have banged his head against the stone wall behind him, he would have done it, just to stay awake.

  If he broke through the Veil, would he kill Falconer with a thought?

  Could he do such a thing?

  It would be simple enough to locate the man’s life functions, if he could only fight off the effects of the bullroot.

  Aron tried for the Veil again, but his awareness slid back into his body.

  He let himself remember Falconer’s insult to Dari, and what the man said about Dari needing evaluation and training. Did that mean Falconer and his friends would begin masquerading as gods and the Goddess in her dreams? Would they torture her with false images of her sister?

  Aron wouldn’t let that happen.

  He could kill Falconer.

  Aron’s head drooped against his chest, and his mouth opened despite his efforts to keep his lips closed.

  He would kill Falconer.

  If he could just stay awake.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  DARI

  Dari
stood at her window, gazing into the endless darkness of Triune. Her attention was riveted southward, toward the Ruined Keep, despite Stormbreaker’s presence in her chamber.

  “He will survive,” Stormbreaker said, placing his hand on the small of Dari’s back. Behind them, a fire crackled in the hearth, and the sweet smell of bubbling herbal tea wafted through the chamber.

  “Herder didn’t survive,” Dari said, unable to stop frowning. “Why does Stone insist on this ridiculous initiation? Aron doesn’t agree with it. I don’t agree with it. It’s archaic and foolish, and—and it’s wasteful.”

  Stormbreaker’s calm tones were almost maddening. “It’s traditional. In a guild, tradition is of great importance. Shared experiences—”

  “I know. I know. They bind you together.” She smacked her hands against the windowsill, wishing Stormbreaker would rail against the trial, or complain about her opinion. She would have preferred anything to that frustrating, emotionless tone. It was his strength, and most times quite attractive, but this night, Dari also found it to be a weakness. His placid serenity made her feel foolish and out of control.

  Where was Nic?

  He, at least, had the emotions of a normal man.

  And the sense never to participate in something like Stone’s trial.

  Stormbreaker pressed his fingers against her robe, massaging the spot on her spine where she always held her tension. “Should we call Blath back from the kitchens and journey to search for Kate?”

  It was a reasonable suggestion, one that reflected how well Stormbreaker knew Dari, and anticipated her need to stay busy in the face of distress.

  Tonight, though, action didn’t appeal to her. It seemed wrong. Risky, and somehow disrespectful to Aron. She shook her head. “I can’t focus. I’d be a danger.”

  Stormbreaker moved his hand away from her, and for a time, he gazed out the window with her. Then he cleared his throat and offered, “A walk, perhaps? The moonslight is bright, and the exertion might be relaxing.”