“There are quite a few houses that are worried. Many who are scared.” Risens heard the conversation before he could see the speaker. The voice was familiar, but without visual confirmation, he couldn’t place the man’s name. The sentiment was no doubt one that could have been repeated by dozens. “When news of tonight spreads, it will degenerate into panic.”

  “I do not give a damn about their feelings,” Lathrenon boomed, his voice raspy, like the sound of boots on loose cobbles. The acoustics in the room were impressive, the sounds swelling as if magically amplified. Without the dampening aspect of bodies crowding the space, his ominous tone echoed for a few repetitions throughout the expansive space. “Fear and panic are manifestations of their guilt. I look at the deaths, and the commonality is crystal clear. They are all traitors to Halthome. Those who conspire against the realm have been infected by their deceit. They are a leaderless rabble who cannibalize their number for their own benefit.

  “Tell me, Lord Theroulde, are you afraid, or does your honor to Halthome guide your loyalty?”

  The slight pause, the hitch in his reply, was curious. The response itself was entirely unoriginal and unsurprising. The words were hollow, containing as much feeling and sincerity as if the Lord had recited them from a book.

  “My loyalty, My Liege, is to you and to Halthome,” Theroulde said with a bow deep enough that Risens was afraid the man’s head would strike the first step to the dais where the King loomed. “I am merely the humble mouthpiece for others who are too weak to express their concerns.”

  Risens shook his head at the blatant deceit. He had the misfortune of eavesdropping on far too many conversations throughout the years and would be surprised if he could count on one hand the statements of honesty uttered from the mouths of the nobility. They were self-serving and wicked, brandishing lies with a smile. They cared little for the well-being of Halthome, Windwake, or its citizens—only for the depth of their pockets.

  All were fools if they truly thought the King was ignorant of their ploys. Tonight would put the myth to rest, though there would be more examples to be made. Risens’ duties, it seemed, would be never-ending.

  “Do yourself a favor, Theroulde. The next time you are called upon to convey the complaints of others, choose your words wisely.” The King rose from his throne with slow intent. “Unless you would be willing to accept the punishment for their heresy, I suggest you politely decline.”

  Theroulde bowed low again, whispering a polite acknowledgment. The King’s acidic stare remained fixed on his person. Standing before the massive throne, Risens understood what an imposing figure the ruler of Halthome manifested. As intimidating as his personal physique was, especially for one his age, the elaborate throne only underscored the position.

  Again, it was modeled after the image of a raven; in this iteration, the wings stretched out wide. Gilded in gold, the details were exquisite. Up close, the individual vanes, shafts, and barbs of each feather were cleanly etched. Though it was likely a trick of the light, whenever the emotion of the King soured, its expansive wingspan seemed to darken and swell. The legs of the bird of prey formed the arms of the throne, the talons, plated in gold, wrapped around the end of the arms as if they clutched the massive seat in their powerful grasp.

  “There is no cause to call an emergency session,” he snapped. “Reports have already flooded in long before the nobility rushed to your door to petition my ear. The investigation is already underway—the results will no doubt show Karieas for the traitor he was. The council will convene on schedule in a fortnight.”

  “My Lord,” Theroulde began.

  “Your request to convene the council has been declined.” The seriousness of Lathrenon’s voice broached no retort. Risens would have been severely surprised if the Lord, known for his experience, cunning, and loyalty—questionable as it might be—would have been foolish enough to question the King. “You are dismissed.”

  With a third bow—this one with far less pomp—the Lord backed several paces away before turning from the King and hastening from the room. A single panel of the massive double doors at the end of the hall opened as he approached, closing behind him with a resounding, hollow thud that echoed within the high-vaulted room.

  King Lathrenon sighed heavily, his eyes still focused on the door. “Before we deal with your report, give me your assessment of Theroulde’s reply.” His voice had softened a touch from the steely tone he’d adopted with the Lord, yet the force of his words still hammered like thunder.

  The command came the moment the echoes stilled in the great hall. He had not once looked toward where Risens had secreted himself. It was a true testament to His Majesty’s prowess as a leader that he even knew there was another in the room.

  Noting the shift in the glowing symbols is his vision, he stepped from his concealment in the shadows.

  “Lord Theroulde expressed feelings that have been crafted to appease, my Lord.” He bowed as he approached a throne he’d stood before countless times throughout the years. Tonight, however, he struggled to hide the emotion from his voice. The symbols—the countdown to his exposure—shifted in the corner of his vision. “I heard nothing more than hollow sentiment and false sincerity behind his words.”

  He felt the intensity of the King’s gaze as it leveled on his person. The overwhelming sense of grandeur made him want to fall to his knees in reverence, yet for the first time, he truly understood the false nature of the King’s authority.

  The voice he’d heard within him… though it was nothing more than that—a voice—nestled within its words was the weight of true power, ominous and overbearing. The sound had done nothing more than rumble in his ears, but its authority and command were unquestionable.

  Lathrenon’s dominion paled in comparison.

  The King merely grunted softly in acknowledgment of his words. His judgmental gaze rolled slowly over Risens’ body, settling again as it reached his face. His expression remained impassive, yet the fire inside his eyes burned.

  “You have been marked.”

  Panic flooded Risens’ senses, threatening to rob him of his steady footing. He fought the heavy urge to raise his shaking hands to the Brand on his chest.

  “I had no indication that the Duke’s guard was a capable force enough to have caused you any injury,” Lathrenon commented, his voice ripe with a hint of scorn. “Perhaps next time, since you were so tardy as it was, you could spend a moment cleaning yourself. I wouldn’t want blood staining these hallowed halls.”

  The relief was palpable. This time, he allowed his hand to gently probe the gash on his head.

  “I’m sorry, My Lord,” Risens replied with a nod. “However, your estimation was correct. They posed no trouble. It was my own carelessness that I have to thank. My presence was noted. I fled the city guard over the rooftops and misjudged the distance and height between Karieas’s estate and the houses beyond. My head bounced off the stone, though I bear no other injuries.”

  The truth was veiled, though it maintained a shred of truth. There was honesty in how the injury was incurred, yet the timing was off. The split along his hairline was indeed from striking stone, yet it was in the Raven’s Court, not the rooftops. After a few moments of intense scrutiny, the King nodded.

  “Word of the Duke’s demise and the subsequent state of his holdings has long since reached my ears and that of the Lords. Tell me, Rightmaker, were your tasks completed? What evidence do you have of his treason?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. None of those in the Karieas’s employ survived, as ordered,” Risens responded, his mind churning to stay ahead of the questioning he expected to follow. “The Duke bore the evidence of his treachery on his skin. The inflamed Brand of the Forked-Tongue was newly singed onto his back.”

  “Is that all? You returned with nothing tangible save for the blood on your person.” The slight inclination in the tone of the King’s voice was a sign of his mounting frustration.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “The Duke had entertained that evening,” Risens offered. “The chamber had yet to be cleaned. The ongoing investigation will no doubt return with documents that will confirm his crimes.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt, yet it was you who was tasked with returning the evidence,” he snapped. The icy chill of his voice pierced through Risens, gooseflesh exploding along his arms. “And how was it that your presence was noted?”

  Risens’ heart sank. Now that the King’s inquiry had turned to the topic he had long expected—and greatly feared—lies would do him no good. If news of the naked harlot’s warning hadn’t reached his ears by now, it would soon.

  The symbols flashing in his vision continued. Now, though, with his heart pounding away in his chest, they felt slower. Yet he knew they had not changed in speed.

  “The Duke was with… company when I reached him,” he responded with all the confidence he could muster. “It was she who alerted the guards.”

  “A whore?” the King thundered. “Did I not order you to eliminate any within the Duke’s employ?”

  The repeated reverberations hammered into him as they echoed through the chamber. “You did, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head again, though he forced himself to maintain his gaze, matching the fury of the Lathrenon’s eyes. “I understand the error of my ways. It was a measure of leniency that will never again be repeated. In the moment, the justification was sound.”

  He paused, wondering if the King would provide a rejoinder. When heavy silence filled the room, he continued. “Your orders were to kill any in his employ. The woman only served him for the moment. Her true master is the street. The courtesans are frequently our ears, bringing rumors from the mouths of the sinners they serve. Her death would have risked jeopardizing that tenuous relationship.”

  King Lathrenon’s eyes squinted, but that did nothing to diminish the fire within them, melting the icy chill, setting Risens’ blood ablaze. After a moment, the inferno ebbed into a smoldering blaze.

  “Were you compromised? Did she see your face? Do not respond, for the answer is irrelevant. Whether she can describe your face or not, your mercy has sealed her fate. There are but two days before your services will be required once more. Make sure this loose end has been properly tied off before then.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Risens took a small step back, expecting the inevitable dismissal and thanking whichever gods might still exist for allowing his deceptions to go unnoticed.

  “Assassin,” the King said, stopping him in his tracks. “Theroulde’s complaints preceded your report. I am surprised and concerned by your delay.”

  Risens’ mind scrambled to process the challenge. To formulate an acceptable answer to the veiled accusation.

  “Your Excellence, as you are well aware, the citywide alarm was sounded. My route was complicated by the volume of guards on the streets. I am well versed on how quickly news travels in this city and was well aware that you would know far quicker than I could run. Alas, I hesitate to admit that the blow to my head rattled my senses. I am afraid I erred on the side of caution rather than haste.”

  The response seemed to satiate the King’s appetite for information, though Risens noted the slight shift in his facial expressions. Again, the truth was stretched, though he had not lied outright. He had lost, in fact, consciousness from the blow to the head, and its resulting effects had caused him to travel with far greater delay. Though the truth was far from anything His Majesty would likely understand. Or tolerate.

  “Now, was there any further report before I dismiss you from my presence?” Lathrenon sneered as he seated himself heavily into the comforts of his spacious throne.

  “No, my Lord,” Risens replied, offering a cautious bow all the while maintaining a conspicuous view of his surroundings. He harbored no illusions that he was the only blade or threat skulking in the shadows, especially when so close to the King.

  “You have been trained better than this.” The King’s voice was flat, yet the undeniable threat was clear. “You will not make the same mistake again. Return to me in two days’ time; your task will be assigned then. In the meanwhile, see the healer for your head and then fix the problem of your making.”

  “By your grace, Your Majesty.” This time, he offered a simple nod before turning from the King, stalking toward the concealed entrance to the tunnel. The glowing shapes in the corner of his vision were flashing brighter with every changing shape. The stray thought stopped him in his tracks.

  “My Liege, if I may, there is one detail that has come to mind,” he added, his mind churning with the possibilities.

  The King scowled, yet nodded in acceptance of the continued interruption.

  “The Duke had papers on his desk. Upon one was a rune the likes of which I’ve never seen.” He explained quickly, knowing that time was of the essence.

  The King looked more perplexed than concerned by the additional information.

  “Sketch the image. Give a detailed account to Fendri,” the King instructed, terse. “He will bring it to the court historian to research. You are dismissed.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Risens did his best to conceal his displeasure at the thought of having to speak to Fendri once again.

  He turned on his heel and stalked to the exit. Operating the hidden switch was a task accomplished without effort, though he steeled himself for the expected presence that awaited him in the shadows of the secret passage. Predictably, Fendri was there, his arms folded over his chest. His displeasure at his recent treatment was etched deep into the features of his face.

  “The King has given me a task for you,” Risens explained without preamble. “Unless you have parchment and a quill on your person, follow me to my quarters, where I can sketch the design and you can be on your way.”

  “You do not give me orders.” The incensed steward launched into what he was sure to be a lengthy tirade, though Risenshad no patience at the moment.

  He spun on the man, and Fendri shrank back as if expecting another physical assault. Instead, Risens growled, “That is correct. However, as I believe I’ve already made clear, the King does. Believe me, neither of us desires this to drag out longer than it must.”

  He continued along the concealed passage without waiting to be followed. He knew the little snake wouldn’t dare disobey the King. Risens was never one to lean upon the King’s name without direct orders, and the servant’s sense of duty was strong. Muttering obscenities mixed with grumbles of unfair and unjust treatment, Fendri’s heavy footsteps stomped in his wake.

  The intensity of the flashing symbols increased steadily as they approached his private chambers. He would be cutting it close, yet any information that would shed light upon this mystery would be of value. Allowing the scholars to do the work freed him up to pursue other tasks of his own.

  Placing his hand in the correct configuration on his door, he felt the slight tingle of the mageLock as it disengaged. He was in too much of a hurry to protest as Fendri’s boot served as a wedge holding the door ajar. Under normal circumstances, had the man dared, he would have found himself tossed bodily into the hallway, yet time did not afford Risens such an honor.

  Hastening to the quill and paper on his desk, he worked rapidly to sketch his best representation of the image that was seared into his mind—the only rune he’d seen clearly enough in his flashing vision to recall. He had some difficulty translating the shape to parchment, especially with his focus split between it and the rapidly quickening pace of the symbols as they shifted through what had to be the final stages of the countdown. The impatient, incessant tapping of Fendri’s foot was an irritation all to itself.

  Risens could have waited to study the final symbol before it flashed out of view again, but then he would risk the steward witnesses that mask’s reappearance. Now, he was fully committed and had woefully misjudged the time. Whatever the exact length of time he’d be free of the facial covering—he estimated it to be somewhere under an hour—it was rapidly approaching. Had he considered it, he may have simply committed it to memory in the privacy of his own quarters, then informed the King that he’d had a sudden remembrance of the rune upon the Duke’s desk. However, the freedom from such choices was now long past, and it wouldn’t do to leave the King’s servant waiting while he gained a better understanding of such things. If he were to dismiss Fendri now, word of his unexpected behavior would no doubt make it to Lathrenon’s ears in short order.

  Content under the circumstances, but not fully satisfied with what he’d scratched into the parchment, he crossed his meager quarters in a few steps and thrust the paper into the steward’s hands. The man, steaming with incredulity, took an erratic step back as if the paper hit him with the weight of a hammer. He gave it a once-over, and his eyes went wide. Something akin to surprise drenched his face for a moment, though he quickly controlled his emotions. But Risens saw something there. Recognition, perhaps?

  “Where did you see this?” Fendri inquired, now clearly trying for a nonchalance the man was incapable of. For the first time in Risens’ memory, the spite that infected their every conversation was absent from his words. The shift was noted.

  “The Duke’s,” Risens replied.

  “Is that so?” Fendri’s curiosity was piqued.

  And that fact sparked Risens’ own curiosity. What did this mark mean to the King’s steward?

  This was a line of questioning for another time. The flashing increased at a frantic intensity.

  “See if the scholars can place it,” Risens commanded. “I have tasks of my own to attend to.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he twisted toward the door and shut it in Fendri’s surprised face.

  Risens sighed as the door closed behind him. He had cut his timing far too close. He lifted his fingertips to his face and felt the telltale metal against his cheeks. His secret had almost been revealed as soon as he’d discovered it himself. Leaning back against the door, he angled his head upward, inhaling a long, steadying breath.

  He would detail what he remembered of each of the runes before the time came when Shadows Shroud could again be removed from his face.

  The healers for one such as he were perpetually close at hand and worked quickly and discreetly. The menders seemed to have a steady stream of work and were easily roused at any hour, offering no complaints at their charge’s appearance. Borrowing the Raven’s Guide from the castle library would be accomplished with ease, regardless of the time of day. The dusty section that housed the ancient guide was ill-used and even more poorly lit, even at the height of the day.

  Beyond that, the Duke’s carnal escort must be dealt with. Thankfully, this was a task for the shadows of night.

  His brief moments of planning were interrupted almost immediately. He felt the impact of the words like the peal of thunder splitting the clouds directly overhead.

  You have proven yourself capable. Return to me.