he wasn’t a man, that he couldn’t possibly return to being a Mab of Mab, much less a king-in-waiting, but Dari’s presence took his words from him.
“All of Eyrie is in chaos. Goodfolk are starving. Bandits and soldiers are raiding villages, thieving stores and supplies, even stealing women and children for their own uses.” Her fingers seemed like feathers against his knuckles. “The suffering must end before society collapses and we revert to living as animals in the wild.”
Snakekiller had made these arguments to Nic repeatedly, but he had always debated with her until they both surrendered and returned to other topics. He didn’t think that strategy would work with Dari. He couldn’t imagine attempting to change her opinions, so he remained silent. Soon enough, she would see the truth of him and be disappointed, he had no doubt.
“Your experiences have changed you, like mine have changed me, like Aron’s have changed him.” Her smile was so kind Nic felt wounded by the sweetness of it. “Perhaps you can’t see that as yet, and I can’t tell you what form those changes have taken or will take. I can, however, assure you of this much—you are no longer Eyrie’s hob-prince.”
“Then who am I?” Nic whispered, thinking of the armies marching toward Triune, of the darkness expanding to absorb all that was left of the land his mother had failed so completely—that he, too, would fail if he was forced to assume the crown he did not feel worthy to accept.
Dari seemed to consider her response for some time. She placed her other hand on Nic’s arm, deepening their contact, and the shield she seemed to have thrown up at Stormbreaker’s presence melted away. Once more Nic felt the fullness of her emotion, the complexity of her mind, her essence—and that immensely powerful graal lurking below the surface of her consciousness. It filled his mind. She filled his mind.
“Who am I?” he murmured again, certain that she could tell him, and knowing that he would believe whatever she said with his all his heart, and strive to make it reality. “What am I?”
She touched her forehead to his, and he closed his eyes.
“Hope, Nic,” she said, and her words poured into him like a fresh elixir. “You’re our hope.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
ARON
“Go away,” Aron told Eldin Falconer, trying not to stare at his crimson robes and glittering silver bracelets. The bright colors stood in contrast to the Thorn Brother’s dark blue eyes and his dark countenance. The crystalline, thorny spirals on his face seemed to accent the lines at the corners of Falconer’s frown as he tried to move past Iko and enter the small cell Aron now called home.
The Sabor had not drawn his blades, but each time Falconer attempted to approach the door, Iko shifted to block his progress. The House of the Judged, more like a great stone barn with three tiers full of barred stalls, seemed to ring with silence broken only by the shuffle of Falconer’s feet, and his snorts of disgust.
Aron shifted to a sitting position on the cot that served as his only furniture in the cell, which contained little else save for a small table with a basin and below that, in the farthest corner, a bucket to receive waste. Books littered what little space was available on the floor, along with a few dirty cups and dishes still piled with food Aron had found tasteless and unappealing. His eyes felt crusty from reading the tomes on Eyrie’s history and on arcane practices associated with older graal talents.
When Falconer continued to try to enter and began to curse Iko for his interference, Aron folded his arms across his gray tunic and swore back at the man. At Aron’s outburst, Falconer grew still long enough for Aron to say, “You should have departed weeks ago. You have all the children Stone couldn’t keep from you. Why do you wait?” To Iko, Aron said, “Let him pass. Let him say his piece. Perhaps then he will go and cease to trouble me.”
Iko moved aside as gracefully as a folk dancer, his leather boots making no sound against the dusty stone floor.
Falconer entered Aron’s cell and glanced around the tiny space as if its size and clutter offended him deeply. As if conditioned by force of habit, he began to straighten, piling up books as he said, “My escort was diverted. The risk of leaving would be too great, until I’m certain they’re in position to meet me.”
A