Table Of ContentQATHBREAKER
ASSASSIN’S APPRENTICE
S R VAUGHT and J B REDMOND
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Code Of Eyrie
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
PART II
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Part III
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
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Imprint
You broke the boy in me, but you won’t break the man.
—John Parr
“St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)”
CODE OF EYRIE
I. Fael i’ha.
The Circle in all hearts. To disobey the Circle is Unforgivable.
II. Fae i’Fae.
Fae keep to Fae. Cross-mixing is Unforgivable.
III. Graal i’cheville.
Graal to the banded. An unfettered legacy is Unforgivable.
IV. Massacre i’massacres.
Murder to murderers. Unsanctioned killing is Unforgivable.
V. Chevillya i’ha.
Oaths to the heart. To break an oath is Unforgivable.
VI. Guilda i’Guild.
Guild dues to Guild. To dishonor Stone or Thorn is Unforgivable.
PART I
Elhalla
FATE TURNS
CHAPTER ONE
ARON
Hot winds blew across the Watchline, twisting rusted wires against rotted fence
posts. Grit swirled through the flatlands, coating hardwoods and evergreens
alike. Toiling in the shadows of the tree-break to mend panels in the barn wall,
Aron Brailing felt the dusty warmth on his cheeks and knew it for a lie. Autumn
was coming with its chill and drizzle, with its death and decay, no matter what
the hot breeze tried to tell him.
Harvest was upon them.
Everything turned. The years, the seasons, the cycles of the moons—fate
itself. It was the way of the land, of the world. That’s what his father taught him,
and that’s why he shouldn’t be worrying about tomorrow. Harvest would come
in its own time, its own way, and the likes of Aron Brailing could do little to
stop it.
Aron tried to center his plank, caught a splinter in his thumb, and bit it out. He
ignored the sting and tried centering the plank again, this time with more
success. Their small barn faced the Watchline, the sparse stretch of dirt and
tumbledown huts and fences that separated inhabited lands from the
uninhabitable territory beyond.
It was once tradition to build all barns in such a fashion, so people could
shelter inside and keep a lookout for predators slinking across the boundaries of
the Outlands, or worse yet, up from the misty southern Deadfall. Aron had never
known a time of great activity along the Watchline, though. Neither had his
father, or his father’s father, and the old Guard houses on Eyrie’s western and
southern borders had long since been abandoned. It had been many years since
any large incursion of manes—bloodthirsty spirits from the Deadfall—or the vile
part-animals called mockers that congregated in the Outlands. Still, barns were
built facing danger, just in case.
Beyond the barn, their meager house stood on its poles, shuttered windows
staring stubbornly toward the Watchline and byway as if to remind Aron and his
family that travelers could be predators, too, in their own ways.
He shouldn’t think about tomorrow.
He shouldn’t, but he did.
And the thoughts made the air squeeze out of his chest.
The sweet-copper taste of his thumb’s blood permeated Aron’s senses as he
lined up the next board. He glanced to his left, where Wolf Brailing hammered a
thick peg through a hole to steady one of the last planks. Wolf didn’t even blink
in the dusty breeze scraping his scarred cheek and close-cut brown hair. His
intense black eyes seemed to order the smoothed wood into place, and well-
marked muscles bulged in his upper arms as he swung the mallet.
Not for the first time, Aron turned his gaze to his own puny wrists, then to the
thin fingers gripping his smaller mallet. His arms and legs were no bigger than
sticks tipped with twigs, dwarfed by the overlarge sleeve of his threadbare
brown tunic and breeches. His hair was still a light copper-brown, and his skin
smooth.
Would he ever gain his father’s coloring and toughness and build, as his older
brothers had done? Could he, too, be a hero in the Dynast Guard when it came
his time to serve? More than anything, Aron wanted his chance to earn his own
rows of tiny rune tattoos like the ones that marked Wolf Brailing’s arms, dav’ha
marks from sacred ceremonies of loyalty following great trials.
“We have no time for woolgathering or soft daydreams,” Aron’s father said in
his low, steady voice, without ever taking his eyes from the wood he worked.
“We still live along the Watchline, even if it’s peaceful for now. Fate can turn
fast for men in Dyn Brailing—and rarely for the better, if they’re not paying
attention.”
Aron dipped his head and hurried to drive the last few pegs into his board. He
struggled to keep time with his father’s strokes, and his heart beat harder with
each slam of mallet against wood. Blood from his thumb dotted the white-gold
hue of the rough plank. He managed to get the last stubborn bolt into place, but
the lay of it didn’t suit him, so he kept at it until he felt the pressure of his
father’s heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Enough. That will do.”
Aron looked into his father’s dark eyes, searching for a hint of happiness as
his father surveyed the boards Aron had hammered. His father studied each peg,
running his fingers over the craftwork as if assessing every decision, every blow
struck by Aron’s mallet. As seconds ticked longer and longer, Aron’s breath
came shorter and shorter.
Then his father gave him a wink. “You’ve improved. No splitting this time.”
Pride tightened Aron’s muscles and pushed up the corners of his mouth. He
drew a deep, satisfying breath of the peppery simmer of podbean stew drifting
from the house. His stomach also gave a loud rumble, as if to protest the length
of time since midday meal.
Wolf Brailing’s appraising eyes moved from Aron to the house, to the meager
