A Prince Among Killers - By J. B. Redmond Page 0,106

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