he started walking, brushing past Iko without further comment. For so long, Lord Baldric’s threats had held Aron’s impulses in check, but this day, those threats meant no more to him than words lost in a loud, strong wind. He wanted to regulate his temper for himself, maybe for Dari, too. And he would do it his own way, without too much guidance or discussion, because he felt too tired, too sore, inside and out, to even be part of the living world.
Some minutes later, Aron arrived at his destination, the only place he could think to go to spend the wealth of anger and ill feelings without doing real damage, save for the Ruined Keep.
Endurance House was just as it always had been, a small building near the byway that ran past the forge, a barrier between the Shrine of the Mother and the rest of Triune. The dark cloud he had so often seen—imagined?—no longer hovered above it. No one was nearby, save for a squat, bald Stone Brother named Markam, sitting on the porch of the building, enjoying a slow sip of almond mead.
When Markam saw Aron coming, he put aside his metal cup and stood, his brown eyes alight with curiosity. “Aron Weylyn. I never thought to see you sent to receive my particular brand of correction. What offense has boy-perfect finally deigned to commit?”
“No offense,” Aron growled, unable to lighten his tone. “No one sent me.”
“Then—”
Aron cut Markam off with a sharp shake of his head. “What is this place? What is it really? Tell me, and don’t play games. I have no capacity for games this day.”
“Yes. I can see that.” Markam’s friendly expression turned serious as he gestured to the building behind them. “I know apprentices tell one another all manner of tales, but Endurance House is only a place of contemplation. A quiet space to contend with your own demons, and find peace with them. Nothing more.”
Aron took that in, weighed it, and made his decision. “Admit me.”
Markam shifted to worry, and pulled at his robe with both hands. “Are you certain? Some don’t react well to isolation—that’s where the stories began to grow, Aron.”
The waves cresting inside Aron seemed to smash through his whole being. He grabbed the front of the shorter man’s robes, absolutely unable to hold himself back. “Admit me! And the Sabor comes as well. If he wants.”
Markam regarded Aron like he just might be completely mad, but he freed himself from Aron’s grip and stepped aside to let him pass. Aron was dimly aware that Iko was following him, but he didn’t care. He strode straight into Endurance House, one of the two locations at Triune he had feared above all others, and walked all the way down the first hall, to the most distant room.
When he went inside, he found nothing but a chamber pot, a pitcher of water and a cup, a single pallet, and a single blanket.
“It’s only a room,” he said aloud, not certain what he had expected—torture devices?
That was more the rumor and myth of Stone than Stone’s reality.
Aron knew that. He knew it.
What had he been thinking?
Why had he built so much dread of this simple, barren building? It was as if someone else’s perceptions had been written atop his own, but now he had stripped them away.
He closed the door, leaving Iko outside in the hallway.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, Aron felt completely safe.
This was nothing but a blank, dark room, as solidly built as a forge oven, with the windows shuttered to allow no light, and the walls padded with wool, straw, and cloth to admit no sound, either.
As darkness and silence settled like a cloak around all of Aron’s senses, he knew there would be no disruptions at all, save for what his own mind might provide.
That, he decided, would be plenty.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
NIC
Nic rose to awareness shivering and knowing something was horribly wrong.
So cold.
His breath rose in a fog as he twitched against the blankets confining him, at first thinking he was still strapped to the boards that Snakekiller had used to keep him immobile while his bones healed, almost two years ago.
But no.
These weren’t the same boards.
It was the wagon’s rough-hewn bottom beneath him. He was in the back of the wagon.
Nic strained for a sound, a smell, a clue to the unrest rising in his gut as he tried to push himself to a sitting position and failed. His muscles