The break from the mask had provided a mental relief from the mounting worry of the deadly repercussions, were his sins to be revealed. His mind once again frantically questioned how he would explain the appearance to the King were he to discover his disobedience, yet saw no path that wouldn’t result in his swift and sure death.

  The thought rooted itself unbidden into his mind. He had willed the disappearance of the mask. The sign, the bright stain in the corner of his vision, had appeared only in its absence, disappearing again with its return. It was no play of light, no damage to his eye. That the last image was of a deliberate rune set his mind reeling.

  What had he missed? Had each shift in orientation and size represented a variation in the blurry, glowing signs? The thought had elements of plausibility, yet it was a conjecture that demanded consideration and testing. The increasing pace and intensifying brightness ceased abruptly as the mask returned. If it had been his command that removed the mask with a thought, his face had remained free for a period of nearly one-half of an hour as he trekked across the city.

  Risens focused again on the internal dialogue that had preceded the disappearance of the mask earlier in the night. All his questioning, begging, and demands of the Shadows Shroud fell on deaf ears as the silver, beaked piece remained securely in place over his face. With each attempt, he paid close attention to the whispering sensations of disquiet that assaulted him. Every disparate feeling that accompanied the consecutive failures was another piece of evidence, though the puzzle it belonged to seemed infinitely vast and only partially revealed.

  He lost track of time as he continued forcing the mask to disappear. Repeating the failure again and again. By the time frustration forced him to abandon the quest, he guessed that nearly a quarter of an hour had passed. The urgency that forced his motions onward was palpable. He had already tarried too long. There would be suspicions if he were not announced to the King soon.

  With a harsh sigh, he abandoned his current quest to hide the mask. He pondered the range of lies he could weave, yet he knew each would unravel the moment the King’s suspicion was aroused. His Majesty commanded a presence that demanded obedience without question. With Risens’ thorough knowledge of the Brands—all but the one he now bore, apparently—he had no illusion that the unyielding sense of reverence that surrounded the King’s presence was accomplished without the augmentation of a Brand. Exactly which one was a mystery he’d never deciphered as the options were numerous.

  The only one the King proudly displayed—though the occasions were strictly controlled—was the Brand of the Bloodheir. Risens garnered the opportunity to see the marking on the center of the King’s chest only once. It was a perfect match to the illustration in the Raven’s Guide. Curiously enough, the guide itself, whereas it detailed other Brands in great detail, was ambiguous in regard to the consequential marking.

  To the best of his recollection, it read only a simple line: Heir to the Raven. Branded in his image. Imbued with the power to rule.

  For a book so detailed and a Brand so powerful, the scant information was startling. He’d studied the tome for weeks, carefully digesting every passage and design. Only now did he realize that he had never once questioned the utter lack of definition in the passage, though it was far from that which troubled him the greatest.

  Branded in his image.

  The line was eerily similar to the booming voice that had thundered in his ears.

  Whose image, exactly? Who was the owner of that voice?

  With these questions swirling in his mind, he adjusted the cowl over his head, continuing with purposeful strides into the leafy wall. With a quiet rustle, the bushes parted before him like individual panels of a curtain pulled apart at the middle. His body itself—more importantly, his blood—served as the code for the mageLock that protected the concealed path. As soon as he crossed through the hidden opening, the pathway closed behind him.

  The section ahead was far more complex and naturally, time-consuming, though he was entirely unconcerned. The notoriously tricky labyrinth would buy him minutes of valuable time, time to ponder and scheme up an excuse for delay. He routinely crossed the puzzle in roughly a quarter of an hour, though others, it was rumored, took well over an hour to safely navigate the maze. Those who took much longer were usually returned in pieces… or ash.

  Of course, there were other avenues through which to access the castle, each equally as perilous as the path set before him. Most were far more tedious, and many would have left him in an even more soiled state. With his report now squarely overdue, he didn’t feel the need to tempt the King’s anger further, arriving at his throne dripping with filth and smelling of sewer scum. As it was, he had delayed long enough and was anxious to complete his prescribed tasks.

  Minutes later, he found himself face to face with another wall of greenery twice his height. As before, it parted for him, and he stalked through. Immediately, there were clear contrasts between this and the last. Here, the pathway he followed descended a long, straight, and well-lit staircase that tunneled into the earth. Deftly dodging around the traps built into the steps until he reached the bottom unharmed.

  The air within the tunnel chilled quickly as he descended, yet it lacked the expected mustiness of the underground confines. A lingering hint of the floral aromas from the garden seemed to be trapped in the space. He had spent many collective hours in dank sewers and subterranean passages over the years and was thankful for the general cleanliness of the passage. The floor and walls were made of tightly fitting granite supporting a high-arched ceiling with a pink keystone that, in the dim light, appeared to be crimson. He knew that few besides him traveled this way, but none would guess it based on the dust and blemish-free floors. The stone was pitched slightly in the center with a pair of drains on either side, though he’d never known flooding to be a concern.

  Risens’ stride faltered. His destination was rapidly nearing. He would find no exits from the passage at this point and wouldn’t for some time. The traps, the hidden pitfalls, the poisoned darts, the incinerating flame, all ceased to be a worry where he walked, yet further protections still remained near the King. No one made it this far without the proper knowledge and keys.

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  A few hundred meters in, the passage made a hard turn to the right. In the distance, he could see the door that would grant him access to the castle beyond. As he always did at this juncture, he felt the tingle of concern register in his mind, but he stalked the final leg of his return regardless. Nearly two dozen plain, steel doors were cut into the sides of each wall, their placements staggered so that none opened directly toward another.

  Framed in similar steel, all were mageLocked, controlled only by Risens and the other assassins who had access to this tunnel. Though he served the honor as the King’s Rightmaker, he was far from Halthome’s only blade. He had met a few over the years, though he’d never seen them again. Whether by design or by death, they were kept apart.

  At the top of each mageLocked door, a single insignia was carved into the metal, each bearing clues to their point of egress. Within each, what the mages called windSteps would transport him by magic to the concurring exit. Had he turned to view the secret passage he’d entered from the maze, the design would have been clear. A miniature, yet complex square shape was embedded into the steel. The angular lines that made up its interior displayed an angular series of pathways, as if looking down upon the hedge maze from far above.

  The passages leading from the rest had been utilized during various tasks throughout the years, exiting to all manner of locations within the city and castle grounds. Here in the tunnel, the traps built into the stone were static and fixed. Behind the doors, the possible threats were fluid. Were any behind the panels harboring ill intent, he would have no spare avenue to escape.

  His eyes darted from door to door as he passed, his footfalls intentionally silent, his hands on the pommels of his blades. The Commoner’s Bazaar, the Port Granary, Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes, each passage remained sealed shut as he continued down the hall.

  At the far end of the passage, a solitary, massive steel door dominated the wall. Leaking down the stone on either side of the door, like tears steaming from the arched ceiling, water collected in small basins near waist height.

  The Ingress of Annuls.

  Unlike the others, with their plain metal design, this one was elaborately designed by the hands of a master metalworker. The raven, its wings spread wide, spanned most of the panel. The creature was comprised entirely of steel polished to such a shine that it showed his reflection. It appeared almost alive, trying desperately to tear free from the metal door and into flight. Its eyes followed him as he drew close. Each talon gripped an object. In its left, it carried a simple crown, and on the right, a blade. The stain of blood on the dagger was transparent in expertly etched steel.

  Unlike the doorways he’d passed in the preceding tunnel, their destinations clearly defined, this was unique. The Ingress of Annuls had been used by assassins for generations, bringing whomever opened the door to their own wing within the expansive castle grounds. In the tender years of his early youth, Risens distinctly recalled being terrified of the portal, though the fear was quickly beaten out of him. He had long since given up questioning how it worked, accepting it as merely another curiosity that he must accept.

  He paused at the doorway, noting the reflection of his face in the mirrored steel. The blood would not do, nor would the mask, though only one he was confident he could scrub off.

  With a final glance at the image he knew by heart, he moved to the pool to the right of the door, forsaking the flesh-eating poison on the opposite side. Cupping his hands in the cool liquid, he splashed it on his face, letting the drippings cascade to the floor. With hands still wet, he scrubbed at the dried blood, careful not to aggravate the gash at his hairline. A second handful scoured free the remnants of smeared blood and grime. He dabbed at the mask again, hoping that this time the Shadows Shroud would give way.

  Risens cackled out loud as the momentary blurring of his vision and the return of the bright, glowing spot blurred the corner of his right eye. Continuing the maniacal laugh, he rubbed his damp hands over his skin. The sensation of cool water on his face was a relief, though a voice in his mind cried out for the loss of the metal that covered his nose, cheeks, and chin. This time, he watched the flashing symbols with intent, counting along with each one. They all lasted a single beat of his heart. A second. It was a countdown, though he knew not the meaning of the runes.

  If the flashes of symbols were somehow related to the length of the mask’s absence, he would do well to mind them. To track them, if possible.

  He was already overdue for a trip to the library; what was one more subject to research?

  With a renewed sense of optimism, he returned his attention to the door. Haste would be required. There was no time to be entranced by the image on the door. He had studied the tale a hundred times. It had long since been committed to memory. The raven was the eternal symbol of Halthome, etched into legend from the founding of the kingdom. Adalhard—a lonely surviving warrior from an obliterated tribe—faced insurmountable odds, pinned between the sheer stone face of the mount that bordered Windwake and armies that hunted him. He had begged for succor, for the strength to carry on, to push the demons from his land. His eyes traveled skyward, his focus shifting to the lone, black silhouette of a bird that circled high above against the azure firmament. The raven answered his call, descending in a ball of flame that destroyed much of the opposing force. In its razor-sharp talons, it held the crown and the blade. With the sigil atop his head and blade in his hand, he vanquished his foes, uniting the realm in the process.

  Risens grinned at the embellishment of the tale. He was well-versed in the manipulating ability of myth and recognized it for what it was. His momentary study of the symbolism shifted as the desperate paranoia twisted into a sudden stab of trepidation. The veracity caught him off guard. Subconsciously, he moved his hand to his chest. Through his clothing, he could feel the slight hint of heat from the Brand beneath the fabric. He’d delivered messages, both foul and fair, over the years and faced the sting of swift punishment for uncompleted tasks. Yet tonight, for the first time, he was nervous.

  His task had been completed to an acceptable degree, though it was far from his concern. His position was one of power and control. He exercised both with brutal efficiency and lethality at a time and place of his choosing. Of course, the best laid plans always had a wrinkle. But understanding that, he always had an optional path that granted him longevity in a pursuit that was often marked by an early demise.

  The mounting deaths never gave him pause. The terror-stricken, tear-streaked, and blood-soaked faces begging for mercy never caused him a second thought. When sleep took him, it was dreamless. The deadly consequences of his actions never bothered him until tonight.

  The Branding now threatened to consume his thoughts. The mask, if discovered, would seal his fate.

  Lies would gain him nothing but an agonizing death. Ironically, for one whose life was forged in shadows and deceit, it was now truth that offered him his strongest option.

  Though he still had no understanding of what the countdown implied—how long it would last—he knew that the grains of sand of time were not on his side. He must hurry before he was discovered.

  Shaking off the aggravation at his sudden depth of feelings, he reached out, laying his palm against the handle of the raven’s blade. The steel door trembled at his touch. He took a step back, his grip falling to his own blade as training took its subconscious hold.

  The door swung silently inward, and the figure that revealed itself on the other side of the portal made his blood boil.