few moments later, Falconer had scraped the plates into the slop bucket and piled the dirty dishes outside Aron’s cell, right next to Iko’s foot. The Sabor hadn’t deigned to look at Falconer again, and probably wouldn’t, unless Aron asked Iko to intervene.
“My boy,” Falconer said as he stepped back in the cell, his flaming red robes seeming to take up all the space he had cleared with his tidying. “When I do leave, I want desperately to take you with me. I’m certain I could convince Stone to release you to my care.”
Aron laughed, hearing the sarcastic, bitter sound as if he weren’t quite attached to it, as if it weren’t his laugh at all, but someone else’s. Someone desperate and tired and far beyond any salvation. “And would I be less dangerous in Thorn’s care than in Stone’s?”
Before Falconer could respond, Aron waved him off. “I have no use for you or any of Thorn’s plots and aims. I have my differences with Stone, but I’ve cast my lot with them, and I’ll meet my fate within the walls of Triune.”
Falconer let out a breath. He leaned his tall frame against the wall opposite Aron’s bed, and Aron thought he might have been trying to look casual, or perhaps friendly and convincing. An effective ruse, or at least it would have been, for someone who couldn’t sense the truth like a bright glow off someone’s skin, who couldn’t smell it like a spice, or taste it like a flavor, or touch it like a texture in the air. The more Aron used his graal, even its simpler aspects, the stronger it seemed to become. Even though he had been blessedly free from nightmares and visions since he returned to Triune, he feared his legacy might possess him at some point, take control of his mind, or at least his sanity.
“Thorn has only one aim,” Falconer said, keeping his relaxed posture. “Thorn seeks the survival and unity of Eyrie.”
Aron glared at him. “You’re lying.”
When Falconer stood straight again, his cheeks flushing and his mouth already open to protest, Aron shook a finger at him. “Don’t forget, High Master, I have the Brailing mind-talent. I can tell truth from lies without even trying, whether I wish to or not. You came here for orphans, but you seek far more than motherless children.”
This gave Falconer pause, and Aron watched the color slowly recede from the man’s face. “Very well,” Falconer said at last, speaking as if the concession pained him. “Thorn does hope to find children with legacies of your magnitude. We wish to shelter you and offer you the proper training and protections so that such blessings are never lost to our society again. Stone has no interest in this. You’ve seen that. Stone wishes to suppress powerful mind-talents.”
“Stone seeks peace amongst its members, and fairness for the Judged,” Aron said, growing tense despite his sense that he had the upper hand with this man. “Mind-talents are nothing more to Stone but an indication of intelligence and potential.”
“It’s a waste,” Falconer said, as if he thought Aron was agreeing with him. “It’s a shame not to use such abilities, not to develop legacies to their fullest.”
Aron stared at Falconer, beginning to understand that the man believed this deeply, that he might have convinced himself in part if not in full, of the rightness of Thorn’s pursuits—and their methods. “And how would you ensure the survival of my graal, High Master? Would you breed me like a bull talon or some prized stallion, to make sure the traits were passed on to a new generation?”
“Of course not!” Falconer’s shock was genuine. “And you are young to be so cynical.”
Aron gestured to the books Falconer had stacked when he was straightening the cell. “It’s all there. The theories and practices that led to the mixing disasters. The guilds—both Stone and Thorn—were no less innocent than the dynast lords. First you contained the strongest amongst the Fae and Fury races. Then you ‘studied’ them. Then you selected pairs to intermix the traits you hoped to claim for the Fae.”
Falconer’s sigh had a dramatic, false quality Aron didn’t appreciate. “I did no such thing, and neither did any living person at Thorn or Stone, or in any dynast. That’s ancient history.”
“Is it?” Aron didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “Are you certain you want my graal in your presence, High Master Falconer? Because once again, you aren’t telling me the truth.” He was sorely