A Prince Among Killers Read online

  Aron and Galvin dodged at the same moment, going in different directions.

  Giant dagger-nails clicked shut on dirt and rocks, and the thwarted bird let out a will-stealing cry. The sound reverberated through Aron’s bones. His skin and shoulders burned, and his blood froze even as it oozed from the cuts around his neck.

  The mane moaned as it lurched forward, dragging one foot. Its eyes burned like black fire. Already, it was reaching for Aron with one unnaturally pale hand, reaching for his warmth and life.

  Aron shifted his attack stance to favor the silver dagger, doing what he could to ignore the throb of his wounds. He barely got his arms and weapons into defense position.

  The mane never slowed its shambling approach.

  Aron tried not to think at all as he rammed his silver blade deep, deep into the onrushing mane’s belly. He sealed his mind against the rush of wet, clinging cold that claimed his wrist, fingers, and forearm. Like plunging his blade into a vat of chilled cooking oil.

  The creature’s features contorted as it shrieked.

  Aron jerked his blade back, but the mane’s essence fell away to nothing. Its freed soul burst outward, then upward, taking the shape of a tall, winged man as it fled this world for the next.

  Aron shook his blade arm, as if to clear the greasy sensation.

  More manes stumbled, lumbered, and dragged themselves into the space now free of mist. Aron counted two, then four, then five and too many to keep counting.

  Galvin shouted again and again, bashing the Roc’s legs each time the bird attempted to pluck him from the path.

  Aron’s panic burst through him like the mane’s spirit leaving its long-dead body. He saw the area free of fog too sharply, his awareness wrapping around each movement and detail. His arm moved as if it didn’t belong to him, plunging his dagger into mane after mane. He turned in circles, cutting first one, then the next, and from somewhere in the still-shrouded regions of the path, more rock cats gave wailing, starved cries. Feral, unfamiliar howls joined the lethal chorus, coating Aron’s thoughts and nerves in yet more ice. The pain tearing at his shoulders grew distant, as did the mind-hammering sounds of the attack.

  He had time to think that Stormbreaker might approve of Galvin and Aron dying together in such a battle. Then the Roc’s snatching claws caught him on the side of his head, knocking his senses loose like so many broken teeth.

  Aron pitched forward at the feet of a dozen or more manes, both blades sailing out of his hands and clattering against the rocky path. Dirt filled his mouth and nose and eyes, and he saw only rocks and mist and a pair of shining black leather boots striding through the manes as if the dead spirits didn’t even exist.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ARON

  “You are strong,” the woman whispered to Aron, seemingly across some far-reaching breach.

  He tried to listen, though a distant aspect of his consciousness was certain a mane was draining away his blood, his spirit, his energy—everything that made him human. His body would become a dead husk, and his soul would be twisted and tortured until he wanted nothing but to feed off all the warmth and life he could find. He was dying, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  The rest of his mind seemed to hover in a blank, black place. He couldn’t see anything or feel anything at all.

  “Very strong,” the woman murmured.

  The voice drew him and terrified him at the same moment. He sensed power and curiosity behind each word. He wanted to use his graal to learn more about the woman, who seemed to be the strange, mystical lady he had seen at Triune, and in his dreams before.

  Aron imagined himself reaching out his hand, imagined the beautiful lady and how radiant she must look in her silvery gown made of starlight.

  Could he almost see her? There—that point of light in the distance! The lady, and she seemed to be surrounded by—by children?

  We need you, the lady sang in his mind, still so far away, but coming closer. Eyrie needs you. All the strong must band together, stand together, or the power of our people will be lost forever.

  The sound was so sweet Aron wanted to weep. He tried to turn his consciousness toward the lady, to extend his arms until he could embrace her. He could see hands reaching toward him now, wispy and unreal and long enough to stretch over mountains and fields and forests. The tips of his own fingers strained to touch the lady.

  Almost there. Almost connected.

  Brilliant colors blasted through Aron’s darkness, slamming into his eyes, his thoughts like an onrushing bull talon. He cried out from the shock and force as a wall burst into existence, sealing his consciousness away from that of the lady. Aron jerked awake, gasping, head pounding, to find himself staring at a cracked stone ceiling.

  What kind of graal had so many colors, an appearance that rich, that deep? Was that wall even made of graal?

  Aron blinked a few times, grieving the loss of the lady in his vision and waiting for his sight to clear. The throb in his head gradually eased, and he realized he was lying on a rough blanket inside a circular stone room ringed with crumbling windows. Weapons of all varieties lay against the splintering walls, from swords to crossbows, and even staffs and shields of different sizes and hefts. Supply trunks littered the floor. Some had been scratched or chewed, and some torn open, but many were intact. Beyond the trunks, fog rushed past the decaying windows, but above it the steely light of a gray sky illuminated the room. Aron realized he was at some elevation. High up, above the ground clouds. Maybe in a tower.

  The Ruined Keep?

  “Galvin,” he tried to shout as he pushed himself up on his elbows, but his voice had no more force than a crushed mouse.

  “Your companion is wounded, but healing,” a man said from Aron’s left. “He is safe in the granary vault downstairs.”

  The words were so deep and forceful that Aron wondered if he might still be dreaming. All the hairs on his body sprang up in a tingling rush. If Cayn himself had a voice, it would sound like that.

  For a moment, Aron couldn’t make himself turn his head. He was terrified he’d find himself gazing at the great horned stag, come to use its sharp antlers to dispatch his soul.

  “You are frightened,” said the terrifying voice in an accent both familiar and unfamiliar. Aron had heard something like it before. His graal reinforced a feeling that lying would mean immediate death, so he nodded.

  “You sense that I am dangerous to you.” The voice sounded mildly amused, but far from warm or kind. Then the tone dropped so low Aron fought a new round of shivers. “Your instincts serve you well.”

  Aron made himself turn toward the man.

  It took the full force of his will not to fall backward on his blanket.

  Not Cayn, no.

  But close.

  It was in the man’s hard ebony eyes. More death than a Stone Brother might deal in a lifetime.

  Aron didn’t even bother to hide his shivering. He felt like a passerine in the paws of a rock cat, and he was certain his existence was just as tenuous. Strangely, though, the wounds from his earlier battles seemed to be gone, but for a lingering soreness in his shoulders and back.

  Someone—likely this man—had saved him and healed him. For what purpose, Aron was too frightened to guess.

  The man was sitting on a large trunk, his limbs arranged in a way that suggested both a warrior’s strength and a cat’s balance. His skin was a tawny golden color, but his hair was as black as his eyes. He was dressed simply yet elegantly in leather breeches and boots and a leather tunic stitched with fine ruby thread in a shape that reminded Aron of Dyn Mab’s crest—the head of a red dragon. The pattern across this man’s chest was a dragon’s head, but its full body also, wings outstretched, rising in flight. In a few moments, Aron realized the man had no weapon.

  The man seemed to track Aron’s gaze to his waist, and the corners of his mouth curled into a slight smile. “I need no iron, steel, or silver to defend myself.”

  Aron’s graa
l confirmed this bold assertion.

  The man’s smile faded, and his dark eyes narrowed.

  Had the man sensed Aron’s use of his legacy?

  But how?

  Dari had taught him to conceal his thoughts and abilities so well that only she—

  And Aron understood.

  He stopped shivering, because what he felt now was beyond fear. He had no word for his emotions save for panic, and fear for Dari and Dari’s sister. He sat up straighter on his blanket, then lowered his gaze to the man’s black boots and bowed his head in the best gesture of respect he could muster.

  The man snorted. “If she has told you so much that you recognize me, Aron Weylyn, she must have explained that we do not hold with empty traditions like bowing to nobles.”

  Aron swallowed, feeling the dry catch in his throat. Had the man read his name from his thoughts, or did he know Aron through reports made to him by spies and confidants?

  “I don’t know what else to do to show respect,” Aron said, at a loss for any other explanation.

  “Look me in the eye again.” The man’s voice was louder, yet somehow less threatening. “Show me courage despite fear. Show me that you would meet your fate without whining or pleading—that I would respect, if that concerns you.”

  Aron lifted his head and forced himself to hold the gaze of Dari’s cousin Platt, the Stregan king. In that moment, Aron’s graal showed him the outline of a great black dragon so massive it would blast the stones of the Ruined Keep into so much dust.

  Brother have mercy.

  With power like that, why did the Stregans keep themselves hidden? They could dominate the land, take back all that was lost to them. Aron could hardly get past his own surprise, and the hopeless feeling of being outmatched.

  “You are doing well so far.” Platt looked amused again, and also a bit surprised. “So my respect does matter to you?”

  Aron kept himself still on the blanket, refusing to lower his head, and once more, he told the truth. “You’re a stranger to me. Your respect doesn’t make a difference in my life, should you permit it to continue, but Dari’s does. I would show you deference to please her, and to protect her.”

  Platt went silent, and his expression froze into a glare. A minute or so later, when he spoke, his words came through his teeth. “And what is Dari to you?”

  Dozens of answers occurred to Aron. Words like “friend” and “teacher” and “shining light” competed for selection, but in the end he chose, “Dari is the best person I know.”

  “Ah, but she is not a person, Aron Weylyn.” Platt shifted on the trunk to lean toward Aron. He was no more than an arm’s length away now, and Aron’s body trembled at the nearness of such a predator. “Though we use the terms ‘person’, ‘man,’ and ‘woman’ in conversation, they are not accurate. Dari is a Stregan as surely as I am, despite the measure of Fae blood in her veins. Have you considered this in your late-night moonings?”

  Aron’s cheeks burned at Platt’s insinuation, but he could no more deny his love for Dari than he could deny the sky or the moons or the sun. “Dari is Dari,” he said, unable to mask the anger in his voice even if the man was close enough to snap his neck. “She’s my teacher and my friend. I really don’t care what kind of blood she has.” He rushed on, before he lost his nerve. “Have you come to force her to leave with you?”

  Platt’s expression shifted from avid and intense back to mild surprise. He sat back on the trunk. “I considered that option, yes. But that is not our way, Aron. Dari is an adult, free to make her own choices, provided she does not compromise the safety of my people beyond what I consider to be tenable.”

  Aron’s fists clenched against the rough surface of the blanket. “And if she did, you would kill her?”

  Now Platt looked shocked. “I would not. Just because we have the strength to deal death like your storied guild doesn’t mean we choose to use that strength.” He frowned at Aron, as if deeply troubled by the question. “Killing and war are as distasteful to us as torturing an infant would be to your people—or at least the good-hearted amongst you.”

  Aron’s insides recoiled from that image, and Platt seemed to sense his reaction. He inclined his head, as if to communicate approval, and continued. “We do not invest in death and ways to die, but in our future. Dari is a brilliant and powerful young Stregan. We have great need of her talents and leadership.”

  “But you would kill her sister.” Aron’s fists remained tight on the cloth, and new dread and fresh panic surged through him. “Is that why you’ve come? For Kate?”

  “That situation is beyond your understanding.” Platt’s answer was sharp, clipped. Too quick.

  Aron didn’t need his graal to understand that he had struck close to the truth.

  “I know Kate is soft in the mind,” Aron said, fishing through his mind for options, a plan, some course of action that would spare Kate, and thus save Dari from a blow that would crush her spirit. “I know Kate isn’t stable because of the Wasting. I also know how much Dari loves her. Is that beyond your understanding?”

  Platt stood so suddenly Aron almost fell backward. He recovered himself and got to his feet so the man—the Stregan—wouldn’t tower over him, glaring like he was.

  “You cannot possibly—” Platt began, but Aron didn’t let him finish.

  “If you kill Kate, you’ll kill a part of Dari. She’ll never recover from it.” Aron touched his chest, where he felt the steady pound of his heart. “I understand loss like that, and the damage it does. If you really need Dari’s brilliance and power, then don’t break her and leave her grieving and resentful for the rest of her life.”

  Aron heard his own words, and something shifted inside his own understanding. Something about what it meant to be a part of the Stregans, or the Stone Guild, or any other group that depended on what each member had to offer. He hesitated, feeling suddenly guilty about the anger and pain he had been nursing since the death of his family, perhaps to the detriment of everyone around him.

  “No one has had word or sign of Kate since she slipped away from us.” Platt moved away from Aron toward the crumbling windows, his booted feet making no sound on the dusty stone floor. “You and your friends and Dari have not found her.” Mists slid by outside, competing with the bright gray sky as he propped both hands on a sill. “My warriors have not located so much as a trace of her existence. It is likely that Kate met some misfortune in the forests, or fell to her death along some forgotten path.”

  “Then one quiet evening, we will find her bones,” Aron said. “We will send Kate’s spirit to the stars and do whatever we can to help Dari through that natural loss.”

  “Do not think I want to see harm come to Kate.” Platt kept his back to Aron. His tone was gentler now, almost soft. “But you must understand, she could be used for a weapon, against the Stregans—against anyone. Kate’s involvement could decide your war, and not in your favor.”

  Aron had debated this point with Dari many times, and he found himself countering with Dari’s standard argument. “If someone had a weapon so powerful, surely they would have used it to gain advantage by now.”

  Platt said nothing, and the silence stretched so long Aron imagined he could hear the whisper of fog against the stones of the Ruined Keep. There were no sounds of predators below, natural or unnatural.

  Aron realized that nothing would hunt when the king of hunters was at hand.

  “From your lips to the ears of all the gods and goddesses.” Platt sounded sincere. He paused another few moments, then seemed to regain his own resolve. He turned and folded his arms, studying Aron as if Aron might be a scroll he was attempting to decipher. “I did not come here to debate morality with you, and I had no intention of allowing you to speak about Kate or Dari, or my decisions concerning either of them. Your loyalty is impressive, and I must admit, persuasive.”

  Aron felt a mad rush of relief, but he didn’t dare let himself believe that Platt had decided to spare Kate, or to
leave Dari in peace. He wasn’t even completely certain that Platt would allow him to leave the Ruined Keep alive, but he felt more hopeful now, despite the Stregan king’s very intense stare.

  “Now, Aron,” Platt said. “Let us get to the heart of what I need to know. And for your sake, I hope you are as truthful as you have been in our encounter thus far.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ARON

  Aron tried to keep a relaxed posture and maintain eye contact, but his body reacted of its own accord. Preparing to run. Preparing to do anything but be subjected to more confrontation with this dangerous man. His thoughts dashed from Dari to Kate to Stormbreaker to Galvin to the purpose of their journey to the Keep, and how he would explain any of what had happened to Lord Baldric.

  “How did you come by such a powerful graal, that it takes a Stregan to teach you?” Platt’s question was casual, but his forceful stare communicated the importance of Aron’s answer.

  Aron lowered himself back to his blanket, folding his legs and shifting to ease the pressure on his sore back. “I think I got it from my father.”

  “You could have used your graal in that battle, but you fought with your hands.” Platt shook his head and glanced toward the circular row of foggy windows. “You were fighting against odds too great for your abilities, but you did do well, and in defense of a companion who has not been kind to you. Those things are admirable, but if I had not come when I did, you would be dead, and your companion as well.”

  Aron couldn’t string enough related thoughts together to formulate a more complicated answer than, “It was a matter of honor. A promise I made to my guild master. I needed to make this journey without using my legacy.”

  At this, Platt returned to his narrow-eyed and angry expression. “The Fae are fools. Graal is not to be feared, and neither is it to be worshipped. It is a tool, no weaker and no stronger than the soul who wields it.”

  “A tool.” Aron felt his cheeks burning again, and he wanted to defend Stormbreaker and Lord Baldric—all of Stone, of Eyrie, if necessary. “A tool like that used by craftsmen and farmers.”