Triune has always been backward in that respect.”
“I’ve been trained,” Aron choked out, his voice dry and whispery despite the drinks from Falconer’s wineskin. His throat seemed to be failing him. “I’ve shirked some lessons, or I’d know even more.”
Falconer’s disgusted snort communicated his opinion. “From what teacher? That Ross pigeon?” He fastened his wineskin back to his belt. “She might be a good bed-warmer, boy, but she’s beneath you.”
Aron’s hand twitched. If he’d had any strength, he would have punched Falconer.
Falconer sat back and studied Aron. “Your friend Dari needs evaluation and training, but you—you could lead a dynast. In the future, Eyrie may have need of you, and the children you’ll father with a proper and well-appointed band-mate. Right now, Thorn has need of your strength, and in return, we’ll give you education and skills befitting a boy with noble blood and such a powerful legacy.”
Aron tried again to move, and understood that Falconer’s wine had eased his agony, but left him paralyzed.
Falconer smiled at him, but Aron found no kindness in the expression. “Have no fear. The effects will wear off, but not before we’re many miles from this hellish place. And I’m sorry about the hunters. I didn’t want to do that.” Falconer’s eyes briefly became distant, and Aron sensed the truth of his words. “After she came to understand the full strength of your mind-talent when you rescued your friends, the Lady Provost was clear in her last instructions. Either you leave with me, or you meet your end, for the good of Eyrie.”
For the good of Eyrie? Aron wanted to argue with Falconer, to tell him that he and his Lady Provost might be as mad as Nic’s mother, but his mouth and lips and throat were as unnaturally relaxed as the rest of him. He couldn’t so much as make a full swallow.
“Fate decreed you should survive, so we leave at sunrise, after the manes withdraw.” Falconer set about binding Aron’s ankles with strips of cloth. “The sooner we return to Eidolon, the better. I’ve been away too long—almost three years now, doing the Lady’s work. I’ll dispose of the hunters but leave the blood. Your friends at Stone will assume the worst, and Triune likely won’t withstand the assault that’s coming. The forces of Brailing and Altar—and Mab as well—will tear down the walls of Stone forever. With good fortune, the Cobb and Ross Guard will come to their senses and assist.”
Disbelief rolled through Aron, and he managed to twitch against Falconer’s hands as the man bound Aron’s wrists.
Falconer didn’t notice. As soon as the Thorn Brother moved away from him, Aron began working to focus his mind, to go through the Veil and call out to Dari for assistance. He closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles, but the thickness slowing his thoughts wouldn’t remit. He bit his bottom lip and doubled his efforts, but he felt like he was trying to think through several layers of blankets, or find his way down a blind, foggy path.
Falconer was pulling a bedroll out of a large pack he must have brought to the Ruined Keep with him. “Don’t bother trying to use your legacy. I couldn’t risk you sending word to your little pigeon, so I added some bullroot to the wine.”
Aron forced his eyes open, though it took effort to move the lids. Falconer’s image was blurry now, and the candlelight seemed dimmer.
Bullroot.
What did bullroot have to do with anything?
“If you had been properly trained, you’d know that bullroot prevents the use of graal.” Falconer unfurled his bedroll. “The damage is not permanent unless you use it too often—and I admit, it’s less reliable in cases of bastard legacies like the storm skills of your guild master. On traditional legacies, it’s quite effective.”
Falconer shifted his attention to nightly toiletries and devotions then, leaving Aron to his panic and private thoughts. For a time, the Thorn Brother meditated; then he stretched himself on his bedroll and soon fell into a seemingly untroubled sleep.
Aron fought the wine and bullroot, and whenever he could command a muscle, the bindings on his wrists and ankles. Time and again, he hurled his mind toward the Veil, only to fall short and crash back into his physical body.
With each passing minute, then each passing hour, he grew more desperate and angry, and more exhausted. It was like being in Stone’s training box, exactly like being in the box, except he couldn’t think well enough to focus his