A Prince Among Killers

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

  Lord Baldric seemed to share Nic’s fatigue. The Lord Provost’s color had reached peak during his pronouncement that Aron was no murderer, and now his pate had taken on a frightening pallor. “Stone remains neutral, but the war comes to us as well.” Lord Baldric gazed past his guests to the window that looked out over Triune’s grounds. “I have more sheltered here than guild fighters. These are people who fled the carnage, only to have it pursue them even though they thought they had reached safety within these walls.”

  “We won’t allow the battle to reach your gates.” Lord Cobb’s voice was earnest and his eyes were kind, but Nic heard the note of uncertainty.

  Lord Baldric’s grunt confirmed that he, too, knew such a promise was futile. “And how will you stop it? Every army in Eyrie is driving toward us, intent on laying claim to our lands, our loyalty, and our resources. They’ll be here within the week—two at most.”

  “Because of me,” Aron said, and the pain in his voice was more than Nic could bear.

  “It’s not because of you, Aron.” Nic scrubbed his palms on the table. “It’s because of me.”

  “No one knows—” Dari began, but Nic couldn’t let her finish. He forced himself to look directly into Aron’s sapphire eyes as he spoke.

  “This war would have had no beginning if I hadn’t died. If I hadn’t remained dead in the minds of the people even after I recovered.” Nic couldn’t quite believe what he was saying, or how much he felt it, meant it, at every level of his being. “It was a mistake—a selfish decision that ended thousands of lives, and caused more suffering than I can stand to consider. I must set it right as soon as possible, as soon as we determine the best way for me to do so.”

  “No one faults you for saving your own life.” Aron straightened his shoulders as he rose to the task of defending Nic. “If you’d returned to the Tree City, the unsanctioned assassins would have made sure to do their task properly. You’d be moldering in some unmarked grave.”

  “Rectors.” Nic said, shifting his gaze to Lord Baldric, then to Lord Cobb and Lord Ross. “Rectors pushed me from the castle turret. I believe the same rectors poisoned my father, my brothers, and my sister. Thorn’s madness extends far beyond Eldin Falconer, unless Thorn’s graduates now hire out to the highest bidder. I think the source of Thorn’s dry rot lies directly at its base.”

  When he realized everyone at Lord Baldric’s table was listening to him, Nic found he couldn’t draw a full breath. He felt his cheeks flush, and his eyelids fluttered as he resisted a wave of anxiety strong enough to trigger one of his fits. His fingers skittered as he moved them along the table, and his voice deserted him.

  “Thorn has already collected many children with powerful legacies,” Aron said, sounding more like himself. “They’ve taken them in the open, and I believe they’ve stolen them in the night as well. Much of the child-swiping blamed on Canus the Bandit might be better laid at Thorn’s gates. I don’t know how they’re using their captives, but they factor into Thorn’s plan, and maybe into the war.” He inclined his head toward Dari, and his features softened. “If you hadn’t saved me, Dari, I’d be part of their schemes.”

  “I didn’t save you.” Dari looked confused. “I wanted to. So did Iko and Nic and Stormbreaker and Zed and Raaf—even Windblown spent the night pacing the halls of the Den.”

  Now Aron’s expression of confusion matched hers. “You came to me in a vision. You helped me escape the effects of Falconer’s drugged wine.”

  Dari shook her head. “I couldn’t have mustered that kind of concentration last night. I couldn’t even manage my own energy, much less lend any to you.”

  “It was you, Dari.” Aron put his hand over hers. “My graal knew the image wasn’t a lie. The bullroot, the paralyzing herbs—you lent me your energy to overcome it. I thought you transferred too much to me and did damage to yourself.”

  Dari shook her head again and withdrew from his touch. “I didn’t.”

  “You don’t have to protect me,” Aron said. “No one could consider this a proper trial.”

  “It was a proper trial. It was—it was a terrible trial.” Lord Baldric rubbed a hand across his wide face, and the emotion Nic saw was not anger or fear or anything close to it. It was grief. For his guild. For his way of life. “Lord Ross was right, Aron. No one should have faced something like that alone. I’m sorry for what you endured, and you are most certainly finished with any need to prove yourself to Stone.”

  Aron’s shoulders sagged again, and he looked at Stormbreaker. “I didn’t make it through last night on my own power. I required saving, first by a lunatic, and then by a vision. I can’t wear the robes.”

  “You’ve earned them, and you’ll wear them, and before you leave these grounds, you’ll draw your first stone.” Lord Baldric’s voice broke, and his shoulders drooped as much as Aron’s. To Nic, he suddenly had the appearance of an old man, overwhelmed by the sadness in his heart.

  “One day when you return,” Lord Baldric continued, speaking more quietly, “it’ll be with your first kill behind you. You’ll see that you belong here, Aron. You’re a Stone of Stone, and I regret anything I might have said or done in these many cycles to make you believe otherwise.”

  The silence around the table was worse than any storm Nic had ever endured.

  One day when you return...

  Nic looked from Aron to Dari to Stormbreaker, then at both dynast lords. Everyone seemed weighted now, especially as Aron worked out the Lord Provost’s words for himself.

  “I’m… to leave, then?” he murmured, studying the backs of his hands.

  “We’re all leaving.” Stormbreaker didn’t bother to disguise the unhappiness in his voice, and for once, his emotions were etched across his pale, marked face. “Lord Ross and Dari and you, too, Nic. Snakekiller is readying our party for the road. Our departure must be very public, after we’ve made certain the countryside will be well aware of who is leaving, and that word will spread to the advancing armies.”

  His green eyes moved to Nic. “Everyone will need to know who we are, and where we’re going, and what we intend to do. You were searching for the right way to announce yourself. I believe the opportunity is at hand. Perhaps we should have some formal ceremony for you, acknowledging your identity, and vesting you as Dyn Mab’s new lord and heir.”

  Nic couldn’t bring himself to respond. He couldn’t imagine that spectacle, though he had to admit it would spread across the nearby lands with the speed of wildfire. The part about leaving, though, about taking a well-publicized traveling party full of nobles out of Triune with nothing but a few guild members and the private Guard of Lord Cobb and Lord Ross—that sounded like mass suicide. “We can’t just walk out of Triune’s gates and take on three marauding dynast armies.” He swallowed. “Can we?”

  Lord Ross’s confident voice soothed Nic’s nerves when he explained, “My Sabor allies will escort us out of Dyn Brailing. We’ll travel for a day or two to make certain word of our direction spreads; then the Sabor will fly us directly to the heart of the combined Ross and Cobb Guard massing just above my border. It’s the most safety Westin and I can offer you and Aron for now—and Dari as well, if she won’t return to the Stregans.”

  “I won’t,” Dari said.

  For a time, no one spoke, and Nic assumed they were giving Aron the courtesy of time to digest the blow he had just absorbed. When Aron did manage to form his next question, his voice sounded thin and exhausted, and he asked it of Lord Ross.

  “Will this save Triune?”

  “I don’t know,” came Lord Ross’s honest response, and once more Nic admired the man’s powerful delivery. “We suspect our party will draw off most of Stone’s would-be attackers. We’ll have what they seek, and they’ll believe you and Nic to be vulnerable.”

  “Stormbreaker and Snakekiller should stay here.” Nic’s conviction overrode his fear of speaking his mind in such company. “Stone should spare us no escorts. Keep your people to defend your grounds
and your sheltered, Lord Baldric.”

  Lord Baldric laughed, but it was a dry, lifeless sound. “I can command Snakekiller about as easily as I can order Stone River to cease flowing.” He pointed to Stormbreaker. “He’s not much better. They’ll do as they see fit, Nic. Best you learn that now.”

  “All of Stone’s High Masters can’t remain here.” Stormbreaker leveled his eerie green eyes on Nic and waited for Nic to understand. The implication of Stormbreaker’s statement sunk deep into Nic’s mind, and he saw Aron and Dari grasp it as well. By spreading their High Masters to different locations, Stone was hedging its odds that someone would survive the war to lead Triune, and rebuild the guild if their stronghold was destroyed.

  “We are not an army,” Lord Baldric said to Aron, who was frowning at him.

  “You could be.” Aron clenched his fists on the table until his knuckles brushed Eldin Falconer’s tarnished bracelets.

  Lord Baldric’s response was surprisingly gentle. “Not and remain true to our charter, our vows, and our hearts.”

  “Fine. Ignore the forces of Brailing and Altar and Mab. Take your fight to the Thorn Guild.” Aron’s tone edged toward desperation. “Make them accountable for murdering Vagrat’s lady and imprisoning her heir because the Vagrat nobles lived outside the Lady Provost’s beliefs.”

  “Aron,” Stormbreaker said. “That’s far in the past.”

  Aron’s face darkened. “What of their new crimes? The ridiculous, dangerous demands, the neglect of their guild duties, child-stealing, taking sides in a war, and the Brother only knows what else. If not Stone, then who is responsible for confronting the Lady Provost and ending Thorn’s treachery?”

  Lord Baldric glared at Aron, but Nic noted that the man no longer seemed so broken and old. His big fists clenched on the table, too, dwarfing Aron’s, and for a moment, his brown eyes seemed bright with rage and determination.

  Aron seemed about to say more, much more, but he left off. Still, he didn’t wither beneath the Lord Provost’s glowering disapproval. After a moment, he whispered, “Someone has to stop them, Lord Baldric. Someone has to stop her.”

  “We have no proof that Falconer had you attacked at Lady Pravda’s command,” Lord Baldric said, then held up his hand as Aron sputtered and swore.

  “But Falconer told me—”

  “The word of a dead madman will carry little weight in a dynast court,” Lord Baldric continued, his voice rising over Aron’s. “If we’re to take on Thorn, we need much more evidence than that.”

  Aron seemed too furious to speak, and Nic was relieved. He thought it was pointless, trying to draw Stone more directly into the war when Lord Baldric had so often made his position clear, and when Triune would be doing well just to protect its own battlements. If Aron kept fighting, he would get nothing but wounded feelings for his efforts.

  “The stone drawing is this evening, after dinner,” Lord Baldric said to Aron, each word measured and tight. “Don’t be late.”

  For some reason, the sight of the Lord Provost on edge put Nic at ease, as if this aspect of the universe had been restored to its rightful course.

  Aron nodded and excused himself with Stormbreaker, who said he was taking Aron to get his robes. Dari announced she would go with them, and find her own way back to the Den. As soon as they left, Nic stood to leave Lord Baldric’s chambers, but Lord Ross stopped him by holding up one large hand.

  “Wait a moment, if you would, Nic.” Lord Ross’s face reminded Nic of a ceremonial mask, etched in place with no hint of emotion to give him a clue what this request might entail.

  Nic hesitated by his chair. It was a request, not a command, but he didn’t think his legs would move even if he wanted to flee. Which he did want to do.

  Nic glanced at Lord Baldric and Lord Cobb, who both stated they had business elsewhere, and left quickly.

  Too quickly, by Nic’s assessment.

  All too soon, Nic found himself alone in the Lord Provost’s chambers, with possibly the most intimidating man in Eyrie.

  “Sit,” Lord Ross said, gesturing to Nic’s chair.

  Nic sat, feeling all at once like the hob-prince again, young and clumsy, and too soft for his own station in life.

  Lord Ross folded hands that could probably sculpt rock without the benefit of tools, and gazed into the fire behind Nic. “Your safety will be my personal mission, I give you my oath. The Sabor have pledged their service to you as well, at my request. They will guard you as they guard the Ross bloodline, until you or I release them from that pact. That will strengthen your position, when the time comes to assert it.”

  Nic held on to the sides of his seat, forming argument after argument about his fitness to lead, but he spoke none of them aloud. He couldn’t debate with this man as he had debated with Snakekiller, and even with Dari. In Lord Ross’s presence, gazing into that stony, certain face, it seemed a fate accomplished, Nic’s assumption of his dynast title, and his role as heir to Eyrie’s throne.

  The strangest part was, with a man like Lord Ross supporting him, Nic almost felt like he could face the task.

  “Your acceptance of me and your offer is most honorable,” he said, averting his gaze from Lord Ross’s uncomfortable scrutiny. “And it’s very kind. If my father were alive, he would give you his thanks, and his allegiance until his death.”

  Lord Ross’s nod was regal, and his eyes were touched by sadness for Nic’s many losses.

  “I don’t know that the rest of Eyrie will receive me so openly,” Nic said, at last bringing a measure of his fear into the open.

  Lord Ross allowed that with another graceful nod. “You’ll have to convince the doubters. You’ll find your moment to show your fortitude, Nic. All leaders do. It’s a burden we all share—our trial, if you will.”

  We...

  As much as he would like to, Nic couldn’t see himself as similar to Lord Ross in any way. He was preparing to ask how he would know the right moment had arrived when Lord Ross cleared his throat.

  Nic startled.

  Lord Ross’s masked expression slipped into something less formal, but no less fearsome. “Even in the very short time I have been here, it doesn’t escape my attention that my granddaughter is fond of you, young man.”

  Nic almost startled again, then caught hold of himself. “Dari’s my friend, and I hope that I’m hers, if that’s what you mean.”

  Lord Ross raised his eyebrows. “Is that your intention, then? To be Dari’s friend?”

  His steady gaze pinned Nic to the chair as sharply as a well-fired arrow.

  Nic’s anxiety drove him to speak before he had a chance to consider his words, even for his own benefit. “No, sir. I’d like to marry Dari.”

  Nic closed his mouth so quickly that the pop of his teeth slamming together sounded like a powder blast in the quiet chambers.

  Had he said that?

  Brother help him.

  Did he mean it?

  But… he knew he did.

  Thoughts of a future with Dari had been in his mind since he first opened his eyes and found her beside him in the infirmary, but he had considered them nothing but fancy. The dreams of a foolish boy, desperate for any relief from his lot in life.

  But here was Dari’s grandfather, speaking to him as if winning Dari’s heart might be a possibility. If Lord Ross didn’t draw a sword and run him through for being so forward.

  Lord Ross didn’t seem inclined to go for his weapons. He remained quiet for a few moments, then said, “I honor Stormbreaker and Aron, but your temperament is a much better match for Dari. I think your strength would calm her and steady her. And she told me last night—you make her laugh.”

  “Strength,” Nic echoed, stuck on that point, and not certain he was hearing Lord Ross correctly. Still, he didn’t dare contradict him.

  “We could discuss the benefits of such an alliance, but my position and my dynast are secure, and yours will be, once you come forward and make known the breadth of your mind-talents.”
Lord Ross waved a hand, clearly dismissing these as petty concerns. “Dari’s Stregan relatives will pose no objections, provided she doesn’t force them into revealing themselves or where they reside. The union wouldn’t be an illegal cross-mixing like that of her parents, either. Since she is a child of both bloodlines, she is allowed to choose whether to join with a Stregan or a Fae.”

  “I—I see.” Nic felt like an idiot, but he was having difficulty trusting Lord Ross’s assessment of his position in Eyrie, and imagining that Dari would ever agree to the union Lord Ross was envisioning.

  “Matches made on temperament are much better than relationships born of necessity or contract.” Lord Ross’s expression remained contemplative, and much kinder and more approachable than it had been earlier. “At least I’ve found that to be the case, with respect to my own happiness. This I share with you, since your own father is deceased, and your mother—well. I suspect she hasn’t been able to impart much wisdom about the business of being an adult.”

  Nic shifted in his seat, releasing his hold on the edges of his chair. “Do you worry that I’ll pass my mother’s madness to my off-spring?”

  At this, Lord Ross actually smiled, if only for a moment. “If we lived by such worries in Eyrie, no one would ever marry, son. You take on risks as well. As you know, none of my heirs save for the son who fathered Dari and Kate have survived. The Wasting goes hard on my bloodline.”

  Nic considered this, but it didn’t weigh against his feelings for Dari in the least. He was about to explain this when Lord Ross brought up another point.

  “Further, Dari has no legitimate standing as my heir, because of her heritage. Her true lineage can never be revealed unless the Stregans one day come forth from hiding—but many a dynast lord has married a pigeon of his allies or enemies.”

  Nic got to his feet faster than he meant to, almost overbalancing and falling to the hearth behind him. When he regained his balance, he faced Lord Ross, and with all the force he could muster, he said, “Please don’t call Dari a pigeon, or any other name that disrespects her.”