A Prince Among Killers

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

  Aron breathed in her rainbow light, expecting to catch a hint of her spice and apple scent, or feel the whisper-soft brush of her robes on his cheeks, her lips on his. The stabbing in his side eased, only to migrate to a spot directly between his eyes.

  The sharpening pain in his head made Aron grunt. His eyes teared. He tried to pull back from the image of Dari, but her spectral hands cupped his cheeks, holding him in place as her multicolored energy swept into him and blasted through his mind.

  Every nerve in Aron’s body answered that jolt with painful shocks and twitches. His back arched. The bindings on his wrists and ankles tore in half as his legs and arms went rigid and extended as far as his muscles and bones would allow.

  He was going to break in half.

  His head would explode from his neck, and he would burn until there was nothing left of him but ash and teeth.

  Stop, he tried to say, but couldn’t coax his rigid lips into forming the word.

  All he could do was twitch and jump and moan, and try to tear himself free of Dari’s deadly grip.

  A moment later, she turned him loose, then swept back to stare at him from a distance.

  Aron lay on the floor of the Keep chamber, his muscles still hopping like frogs in a rainstorm. He had no control, then some, then more.

  He pulled himself to a sitting position, and the remnants of the numbness and weakness left him in twitches and spurts. His mind felt newly sharp and calm, and his body fresh, as if he had slept the night through in his own bed at Triune. When he reached for the Veil, he achieved his goal immediately, and he could see Dari so clearly it made his heart ache. He focused his graal on her, and knew she was real. This was no false image, no deception.

  This was Dari, only not at all the Dari he knew. Her image now had the haggard, spent look of a spirit about to explode into sparkles and fly toward the heavens. She sagged instead of stood, and her hands were shaking as she clasped them together.

  Aron leaped to his feet and moved toward her, on both sides of the Veil. “You gave me too much of yourself. Take some back, Dari. Here.” He reached for her, intending to embrace her, but she drifted away from him, toward the Keep wall.

  Her eyes now looked frightened.

  “Dari!” Aron grabbed for the hem of her robe, but missed.

  She moved around him in a circle, never taking her eyes off his face, studying him as if she might never have the opportunity to see him again.

  “What did you do to yourself?” Aron’s voice rose with his distress. His pulse was normal again, but accelerating, making blood rush against his ears until he feared he might not hear her response.

  Dari mouthed something to him, her eyes wide and terrified and sad.

  Aron jumped toward her and tried to capture her robe again, but failed. “What? Tell me again, Dari. I didn’t hear you.”

  The apparition made a noise that sounded almost like a sigh.

  Aron put his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t scare her away from him, leaned forward, and did his best to hear every word she spoke.

  Kill… me….

  The words formed in his mind instead of in the stagnant air of the Keep.

  Aron thought he must have heard her incorrectly. Surely she meant for him to kill Falconer when the Thorn Brother returned.

  “What, Dari? Did you—”

  The image of Dari lifted her hands and folded them together, as if she might be beseeching a god to grant her favor.

  Kill me, she repeated.

  Then her image faded through the wall of the Ruined Keep, and she was gone.

  “Dari!” Aron’s awareness plummeted back through the Veil. He ran to the wall and struck the stones with his fists. Then he ran his palms over the spot where she vanished, but found nothing. He could sense nothing of her at all.

  For a moment, he considered leaping through the window, but turned for the door instead.

  Falconer was standing in the archway.

  The Thorn Brother’s hands and bracelets and robes were soiled with blackish stains Aron presumed to be old blood, and his eyes were wide with surprise.

  Aron’s hand smacked against his waist to grab a dagger, but he had no weapons belt. Falconer must have taken it while he was unconscious.

  The Thorn Brother, however, was wearing a short sword, which he drew. “I don’t know how it’s possible that you’re standing, boy, but you won’t be leaving unless it’s under my supervision, with a new dose of nightshade elixir.”

  Aron calmed himself, drawing on session after session of practice with Dari. He let his awareness ease through the Veil, all the while keeping his actions and graal masked from the Thorn Brother. He wasn’t adept enough at traveling over distances to reach out his mind to Triune, not while he had to concentrate on Falconer’s drawn sword, but he would communicate with Dari or Nic or Stormbreaker soon enough.

  “I won’t be going with you,” he told Falconer, holding his hands palm out to discourage the Thorn Brother from charging him with the blade.

  “You don’t understand what’s at stake,” Falconer said, turning the short sword in his grip like an experienced fighter. “You don’t understand what Lady Pravda is trying to do.”

  “And you don’t understand me,” Aron countered. “I have no interest in your Lady Provost’s schemes. Let me pass.” His gaze dropped to Falconer’s stained garments. “We don’t have to bring this to more bloodshed.”

  Falconer emitted a low growl and circled Aron, keeping his short sword ready. “I don’t want to kill you, boy. Not when fate has spared you once already. What you could mean to Thorn, to Eyrie—you have no idea.”

  Aron kept his awareness on both sides of the Veil, paying attention to the man’s movements in the Keep chamber, and to Falconer’s increasing red glow on the other side of the Veil. The man did have a strong legacy, and he was preparing to use it.

  But how?

  The Mab gift was broad, like that of the Stregans, but primarily it involved seeing what might be, what could be, and what would be.

  Aron started to move to his left, but Falconer blocked him with a quick lunge. Aron feinted right but jumped hard to the left again—and Falconer beat him to the position, keeping him at the same distance from the Keep door.

  Was he anticipating Aron’s strategies?

  To test his theory, Aron executed another series of potential escape moves.

  Each time, Falconer stopped him easily.

  “You know where I’m going,” Aron said.

  Falconer’s smile was chilling, like the sunlight reflecting off his sharpened sword. “You can’t get past me, and you have no weapon. I can see that you can’t use your graal yet, either, so what choice do you have? Sit on the floor, boy. A drink of my nightshade elixir, and we’ll be away from this place, heading for much kinder, brighter lands.”

  Aron didn’t smile back at the Thorn Brother, though he was gratified that his shields prevented Falconer from seeing that his legacy had been restored to him. Dari would be proud.

  Dari…

  A surge of desperate worry nearly distracted Aron from his purpose, but he fought to maintain his concentration.

  “Stone trains us to fight with and without weapons,” he told Falconer. “We could be at this cat-mouse game for a long time.”

  Falconer’s upper lip pulled back in a new snarl.

  “Not all the predators on the Lost Path hunt at night,” Aron continued, watching Falconer’s blue eyes and the color of his legacy. “The longer I hold you off, the more likely we’ll be eaten by something as we make our escape.”

  Falconer struck out with his sword, aiming for Aron’s arm.

  Aron sidestepped and spun to keep Falconer in front of him.

  The Thorn Brother swore and jumped to block Aron’s egress, once more occupying the space between Aron and the chamber door. His eyes had gone wider, and Aron thought he caught a gleam of worry.

  “A Great Roc attacked me last time I made this journey.” Aron tried to so
und both taunting and frightened. “And I’ve seen far more dangerous creatures outside these walls.”

  Falconer was definitely getting more rattled.

  Aron figured the man couldn’t be thinking well, given his recent actions. He didn’t want to underestimate anyone with a lifetime of guild training, but something had left Falconer a shell of what he should be. Maybe it was a troubled conscience or the ravages of some illness, or some other destructive force. Aron didn’t really care. He just wanted to goad Falconer into making an uncontrolled attack.

  “What happened to the children you stole from Stone?” Aron increased the mockery in his voice. “Are they already dead, or did you hand them over to the Guard? I hear Lord Brailing is conscripting anyone old enough to hoist a sword.”

  “The children are safe,” Falconer insisted. “They’re on their way to Eidolon with escorts from Thorn.”

  The flare in his legacy let Aron know how important it was to Falconer, this belief that he was on the side of right, that he was making noble choices, for the good of others, his guild, and Eyrie.

  “Who guaranteed that safety?” Aron paced back and forth, keeping Falconer off balance, “Lord Brailing? When you made alliance with that oathbreaker, you disgraced every vow you swore to uphold.”

  Falconer’s sword trembled in his hands. “Thorn has no alliance with Brailing.”

  “That’s a lie.” Aron laughed, making sure to sound as cruel as possible. “I don’t need my graal to tell me that. All of Eyrie knows what Thorn has become. A concubine to traitors and monsters.”

  Falconer lashed out with his sword and his mind, striking at Aron with a clumsy, angry thrust. At the same time, he tried to use his graal to shock Aron, perhaps disorient him—but Aron dropped his mental shields as he leaped back, out of range of the short sword.

  He met Falconer’s graal with his own, and he held back nothing.

  Stop, he commanded, imagining Falconer freezing where he stood and dropping his short sword.

  Falconer did as Aron ordered—and more.

  Everything about the man came to a complete halt, from the flow of breath in his lungs, the flood of blood through his veins, the beat of his heart, the blinking of his eyes. Every motion associated with Falconer ceased to exist.

  His face turned a terrible shade of red, then purple as his short sword clattered against the nearest wall. For a moment, the Thorn Brother appeared to be a piece of petrified wood, rendered in the shape of a red-robed man with thorny tattoos carved across his face.

  When Falconer fell, he dropped like a dead tree, hard and fast and without any break in momentum.

  Aron watched Falconer strike the stone floor, and heard the crunch of bone from the impact. He didn’t have to go to Falconer and kneel beside him to know that he would find no breathing, no heartbeat, no life.

  Falconer had died the moment Aron spoke with his graal.

  Waves of cold traveled up and down Aron’s spine, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

  He had known this was possible, killing with his mind, but he hadn’t imagined it like this. No matter his fury from the night before, he hadn’t intended that outcome. He had meant to disarm Falconer, to render him unable to fight. Aron had intended to take Falconer back to Triune, to explain himself to Lord Baldric.

  “Too much energy,” he whispered aloud, realizing his error. The force of his command had robbed Falconer of any chance to defend himself or resist the order.

  If Aron could have reached into his own mind and removed his graal, he would have done so. He would have ripped it free of his body and thrown it from the tower window of the Ruined Keep, and let the mockers and manes feed on it.

  He had killed the First High Master of Thorn. And he had done it with a single thought. A single word.

  Was this murder?

  Aron shook his head to try to clear his senses, but cold seemed to be claiming him inch by frozen inch.

  Moments ago, all he wanted was to reach Dari, to ensure her safety and well-being. He had wanted to see his friends, go back to his home. He had wanted to hear Triune’s bells ringing for him.

  And now?

  Aron forced himself forward.

  Now he wasn’t certain where he should go, or what should be done with him when he got there. As before, when he rescued Nic and Snakekiller, Aron felt his world shifting until he didn’t know himself, until he no longer saw the course of his own future, even days from now, much less cycles or years.

  Everything had changed for him. Again.

  When he reached Falconer, he lowered himself to his knees and placed his hands on Falconer’s wrists. The man’s skin was already cold and hard, drained of everything that made it vital and human. Aron carefully removed Falconer’s bracelets, then turned him over and felt through his robes until he located his own silver dagger, the one Falconer had removed from him the night before.

  Feeling detached and less than human himself, Aron drew the dagger from Falconer’s pocket, then plunged the blade into Falconer’s chest. He spoke in the Language of Kings as Stormbreaker and the Stone Guild had taught him to do, summoning Falconer’s spirit.

  The man’s cardinal cheville burst open, falling to dust and bits of bright red stone. An instant later, his essence burst upward, freed from its ruined flesh by the breaking of the cheville, the silver in the dagger, and Aron’s rhythmic incantation. For a few sad seconds, the image of a powerful winged man lingered above the body.

  Then all that had been Eldin Falconer lifted upward and exploded into glittering bits as it struck the Keep’s ceiling. Aron knew the man’s energy would keep rising, striving to reach the sky and the stars.

  Aron folded Falconer’s arms, closed the man’s staring eyes, then withdrew his dagger and cleaned it. He fashioned himself a new belt of cloth, and used it to strap the dagger and Falconer’s short sword to his waist. When he was finished, he collected Falconer’s bracelets, and set out from the Ruined Keep.

  His destination, at least for the moment, was Triune. It seemed the only right thing to do, to take Falconer’s bracelets to Lord Baldric, and explain what had happened. The prospect of Judgment no longer frightened Aron. If that was Lord Baldric’s decision, Aron would submit to it without protest. He might even submit to the killing blow rather than strike at one of his fellow guild members. It grieved him to think he had failed his trial, and failed so completely in the control of his graal. More than anything, though, it hurt Aron to know he would disappoint and wound the people he loved.

  As he ran toward the Stone stronghold, Aron noticed the silence on the Lost Path, and knew that the truth was clinging to him like a tangible smell. It had to be obvious to anything that might choose to attack him.

  Predator.

  That’s what he was. Like Platt. Like the Altar hunters. Aron was a killer, and even the animals knew it.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  NIC

  “It wasn’t murder!” Lord Baldric’s voice thundered through his chambers, rattling Nic’s nerves.

  The sight of Aron, stubbornly wearing his apprentice’s tunic and breeches, sitting at the opposite end of Lord Baldric’s long table beside Stormbreaker looking so utterly broken—that rattled Nic’s heart. Eldin Falconer’s silver bracelets, coated with remnants of blood from four Altar hunters, rested on the table in front of Aron, offering mute testimony to what Aron had suffered.

  “You defended yourself,” Stormbreaker said. “You defended Stone, Aron. Apprentices should contend with natural elements and the dangers of the land during their trial—never human hunters.”

  Dari sat on Aron’s other side, and next to her was Lord Ross. Dari’s grandfather was so powerfully built that he dwarfed everyone else at the table, and his smooth, dark skin gave no hint of his age or the sorrows he had suffered. He had large, dark eyes like Dari, and his hair was the same flawless coal-black as hers, though much shorter, with a dash of silver at both temples. With his dark green robes and black eyes, he was the picture of nobility, an
d Nic couldn’t help but admire the force of his character and voice.

  “I’m sorry, young man,” Lord Ross said to Aron, his bass voice as commanding as his appearance. “You shouldn’t have faced such an attack alone. I would have been honored to fight at your side.”

  “As would I,” Lord Cobb agreed from across the table, pulling at his overlong brown beard. He was still dressed in the simple brown robes of a common traveler, and Nic suspected he was more comfortable in those garments than the fine silks of a dynast lord. “Gods. First Helmet Brailing’s mind goes over a cliff, and he takes Bolthor Altar and the warbirds down with him. Now Thorn’s leaders have followed after them—or at least Eldin Falconer did. What are we to do, Kembell?” Lord Cobb gave Lord Ross a sad look. “How are we to stop this disaster?”

  Nic’s stomach lurched as he thought about his mother, always fragile, never stable. Had Eyrie created a generation of lords and ladies who didn’t have the constitution to lead? Were the only sane nobles in the land sitting together at this table?

  “We stand with our allies.” Lord Ross gestured around the table. “And we call to all who would stand with us.” To Lord Cobb, he said, “The war has come to us, Westin, no matter how we’ve tried to keep it from our borders.”

  Nic grabbed the ends of the long table and did his best not to lean forward and put his head on the smooth, dark wood. He was exhausted from his emotional journey in the last day. In only hours, he had traveled from worry and agitation over Aron, to elation at being with Dari, to distress at being confined when Stone’s visitors arrived, to anxiety at meeting dynast lords like Lord Cobb and Lord Ross. Real men, with real purpose and strength and confidence, the confidence a true leader needed to possess as a matter of course. The confidence Nic couldn’t hope to make his own.

  That anxiety had given way to joy at seeing Dari so happy to be with her family, fear for Aron all over again, despair when the mourning bells tolled, then elation when Aron came stumbling back through Triune’s gates.