The interior felt intimately familiar, though the memories formed within its walls were all clouded in pain. He had always entered the castle infirmary through his own private wing. There were few places in all of Windwake that he considered off-limits, yet he had never once pondered what was beyond the door on the opposite side of the small chamber—the one through which the healer always arrived. He should have guessed the windStep would have taken him to the healer’s own chambers, yet the thought never crossed his mind.
As he left Tawny’s small apartment, his mind twisted over the events of the morning.
Healer Tawny had been a surprise. Rescuing her from the lecherous hands of Dorchette and his feckless minions had been a stroke of luck. Though he knew virtually nothing of her, he felt a peculiar bond—one not borne as a product of the unnatural charm from her original Brand. There were few—if any—that he thought he could trust.
He now counted her as among that number.
She had known him even with the mask. And truth be told, Risens was ashamed he’d never paid enough attention to the healers to have been able to identify her by those striking green eyes.
Alas, they both had secrets that would be detrimental if they were to come to light. The leaking of those secrets would likely prove to be fatal to both. Whether it was based on trust, respect, convenience, or desperation for survival was a topic up for discussion. At the moment, however, Risens had no reason to doubt her credibility.
As peculiar as the event had been, the prospects of the Roost, hidden within the Raven’s Court, were limitless. If not for the King’s task at hand, he’d have rushed back there now. Currently, sleep was the primary concern that dominated his attention. It had been well over a day since he’d rested, and though he had the energy to persevere longer, taking advantage of a few hours during the height of day would be a wise decision.
Risens listened, confirming the expected silence in the hallway before exiting the small clinic. The doorway would remain a one-way passage unless Tawny answered his call for assistance and allowed him through.
Unsurprisingly, the corridor of his private wing was empty, allowing him to slip into his quarters unnoticed and without further delay. He had worried that the ever-present and entirely aggravating Fendri would have been hovering nearby. Yet, for once, the man was nowhere to be found.
Lucky for him.
The momentary reprieve was shattered like glass as he opened the door to his room. It would have likely seemed a trivial detail to most, but to him, the single sheet of parchment tacked to the wall beside his desk was an ill omen.
He alone had access to his chamber.
The note was neither his nor had it been there when he had left. Instinctively, his hand fell to the dagger at his hip, the steel whispering softly as it cleared the leather. His room and bath chamber were small, but that didn’t stop him from meticulously searching every corner. He found nothing amiss. This fact left him questioning whether he was relieved or dismayed.
His senses were on high alert. He stalked back to the chamber door and slid the heavy metal locking bar into place. It took several forceful attempts to lever the pole into the slot. In the nearly fifteen years he’d resided in this chamber, he’d never once locked it. The sturdy manual bolt was redundant—the door had been mageLocked from the start.
The concern over the note quickly morphed to curiosity as he scanned the neatly penned parchment. An intricately crafted grid covered much of the page. In columns, the runes were arranged with corresponding numbers sketched under them. From top to bottom, then left to right, the numbers descended. The patterns were startlingly clear. With each integer of ten, a small slash or line was removed from the design, simplifying as it decreased. He’d seen each and every one flash into his vision, yet never understood their meaning. He recognized the first, the last, and now the middle, yet they were still nothing but arbitrary runes.
Calling to memory the flashing in his vision, he scanned the page.
Forty-nine. Forty-eight.
His heart raced at the revelation of the mysterious parchment. He had provided Fendri with a single design.
Zero.
The man had found the time, charted out for Risens, then returned to his chamber with this legend. There were definite concerns as to how anyone besides Risens had entered his chambers, though he knew it had to have been the King’s steward.
But that settled it: the flashing symbols were, in fact, a numbered countdown—albeit, in a language Risens didn’t know. Where had Fendri found this information?
He resolved to speak with the man as soon as time and discretion permitted. As it was, time and his consciousness were fading.
Risens stripped off his blood-speckled clothing, moving to the bath to wash up. He stopped in his tracks at his reflection in the small mirror. The naked skin of his chest had been scarred with the minimalistic outline of a raven’s face. Nothing more than an outline of a pointed beak centered beneath two eyes. It had been a simple, yet life-changing addition to his body. With all of the happenings this morning, he’d nearly forgotten about the stinging agony that had followed passing the trial in the Roost.
Detail, though subtle, had been added to the plain Brand. Though it was only a few more welts for lines, the changes were striking. Where hollow voids had represented the eyes, the beginnings of pupils had formed, and to the beak, a touch of shading along one side had been added. He ran his fingers over the raised scars. The pain was only a memory, but heat still radiated from his skin.
By the time Risens had finished bathing, the mask had still not returned. He settled on his cot with the mysterious cipher and the Raven’s Guide that had nearly cost him his life to acquire. Ironically enough, it was the book that had saved his life from the devastating attack by the sentinels. He thumbed through the pages with a growing sense of frustration. The effort seemed pointless. He knew without a doubt that the Brand on his chest would not be found within its yellowed pages.
Leafing quickly to the back, he was surprised to find several blank pages at the end. Thirteen, he noted, as he flipped to the end. The immaculate details of the compact tome—from the elegant handwriting to the perfection of the designs—were impressive. Every word and line was purposeful and straight. With the pre-established level of attention, it felt bizarre that so many extra pages were left unfinished, though he put it from his mind, choosing to spend the waning moments of his consciousness studying the numbered glyphs. He copied them to a new parchment and committed them to memory as best he could. The most familiar design, the brightest and last in his vision flashed, the sign he now understood to be zero. Sleep took him moments later.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
***
Light streaming in from the artificial window in his chamber confirmed what he had expected. Only a few hours had passed. But when he rose, he felt reinvigorated. Sleep, to him, was an unfortunate necessity, though, thankfully, he’d hardened his body to function on only a few hours at a time. It was now just past midday. He donned his usual deadly complement of gear, as well as a few unexpected additional items. He carefully folded his handwritten copy of the cipher into the small Raven’s Guide, storing a couple of candles and a pencil with it. The original, presumably drawn by Fendri, would remain safely stored in his chamber.
With a thought, he banished the Shadows Shroud before stepping out into the hall. Silently and unmolested, he walked through the heavy metal windStep. Ignoring the other portals, he hastened along the pathway and exited to the hedge maze beyond.
Risens squinted his eyes against the brightness of the afternoon sun. Rarely did he experience the full majesty and strength of the daylight hours. His place was in the shadows; his home, darkness. Even though he would navigate the streets with his face on display, he had been well-trained at staying unseen.
None who happened to spot him would recognize him. For their own sake, none would be able to connect him with his deadly craft or his powerful benefactor. Few, if any, would ever see his face a second time, and for that unlucky number, it would likely be the last thing they ever saw.
The day itself was pleasant, with a deep azure sky unblemished by clouds. The activity in and around the Great Exposition was expectedly busy owing to the favorable weather, but he paid the attractions no mind, slipping into the city beyond.
Fullness of day was a peculiar time for his tasks, yet at present, it was the most suited to his mission. In the early hours of the afternoon, the pub he sought would be far quieter than its raucous nighttime norm. He had little expectation that, were the woman to move, it would be done in the light of day. Her services, while typically rendered under the cover of night, were not like his. She had no desire for concealment. Discretion and secrecy were her allies, but the Brand of her craft was meant to be seen.
The square before Pale Pink’s Pub was eerily quiet. Risens stuck to the shadows—the same alley away from where he had paused the night before. He expected the violent show of force from the city guard had done its job to scare most of those curious or foolish enough to hang around from the area. Those with ill intent would have no doubt moved on to far less risky locations until the undesired attention settled.
The square itself only occupied a small footprint of the city, easily dwarfed by the reputation of the establishment. The stories of Pale Pink’s Pub were legion among the revelers of the city, though viewed with endless scorn by the guards and those not predisposed to drinking or brawling. Only one thing overshadowed its notoriety—its namesake, Pale Pink.
Damage from the previous night’s brawl had been insufficiently tidied up. Shards of glass spread across the cobble, reflecting glints of afternoon sun. The larger chunks of wood were absent from the scattered piles, though judging from the patchwork construction of the replacement door, he guessed where it had gone. It was currently ajar. He doubted it could close entirely due to the awkward angle of its sag. He couldn’t tell from where he loitered, but it appeared as if one side was held aloft by a segment of rope.
Risens skirted the outside of the square, prowling the alleyway behind the pub. He’d witness the steady flow in and out of the establishment at night, noting the working women who entered alone and regularly left with company. For one seeking a safe house, access would be easy. Even through the front door, if desired, though discretion in a place like this was likely advantageous. There were several entrances at the rear of the structure. All but one was barred from the inside and nailed shut. Various crates and barrels were stacked around the others, and judging from the contents of the boxes and the odors emanating from the gaps in the frame, it led to the kitchen.
Gently, he tested the handle, unsurprised to find it locked. The metal trim rearing from the edges of the panel and frame hinted at the disparate security at the rear entrance compared to the front, which was currently hanging on by a literal thread. Though he’d only attempted the feat in the Roost, he found returning the Shadows Shroud to his face was a process easily accomplished. He tried to remove it again early, the discomfort immediately confirming his suspicions. He’d have another hour to wait.
The lock, though remarkably intricate—far more than one would have expected for such a place—gave him little trouble. After a simple picking, the door swung outward silently on its hinges.
Risens peered into the gloomy kitchen. The smell was a testament to the quality—or lack thereof—of the product. Pale Pink’s Pub had a well-deserved reputation for its disorderly attitude, arguably the strength of its spirits and ales, but a culinary destination, it was not. He choked down the bile that threatened to escape his gut as he slipped into the room.
The dimly lit kitchen was long and narrow, little wider than a hallway and far dirtier than most outhouses he’d used. A pair of crooked double doors led to the pub inside. A trio of inordinately inebriated men sang a peculiarly unintelligible rendition of a well-known classic.
Oh, the road rolls ever on, my lads, through forest, field, and fen,
With a pack upon your shoulder, you’ll not come home again.
But raise your glass and sing with me, forget the fight and fear,
For tonight, we drink to tales we’ve told. Take heart, my friends, there’s beer!
We’ve danced with death by canyon cliffs, and kissed the mountain wind,
We’ve robbed a troll of golden teeth and called the storm our friend.
So stoke the fire and fill your cup, and though the bread’s gone stale,
The gods may damn or bless our path—but take heart, good men, there’s ale!
A single door on the narrow wall closest to his entrance was cracked open. Through the gap, he could see a room lined with wooden shelving, each cramped with bottles, unbroken glassware, tankards, and far less breakable smooth-finished wooden goblets. The space was little more than the size of a closet, yet the reinforced door gave another hint to the security it provided. Leaving it open was likely an oversight borne of complacency.
He could see only a sliver of the tiny room. The lower row was lined with barrel after barrel of some unknown spirit or ale. His heart sank as a shadow blocked out the light and view of the room beyond.
There was nowhere for him to hide. Nowhere to run.
He narrowly dodged the door as it slammed open. Up close, the man’s stature seemed far more imposing than from afar.
A giant of a man sauntered through the narrow opening, his arm draped casually over the man at his side. At a little less than half his size, the massive hand of the infamous pub’s namesake covered most of the recognizable Brand on the smaller man’s chest. Only the bottom section of the twisted roses of the mark that signified the courtesans was visible below his fingers.
Pale Pink’s flamboyant character was backed by a staggeringly immense frame. His dark skin rippled with muscles, and his unpredictable mood always hovered between intense mirth and blind rage. His crooked smile was rumored to lead to suffocating bearhugs, though the recipient was often unsure whether they were being greeted with a genuine welcome or having the life crushed from them. He was just as likely to serve his potent libations as he was to physically throw the patron across the room. His memory was reputed to be shorter than his temper, confusing friends for foes in the span of an evening. Risens had seen him on occasions and was now sure he was the largest man he’d ever witnessed.
Pink’s jovial smile contorted as he noted Risens’ presence in the kitchen. The levity that previously sparkled in his eyes was incinerated by the fires of pure violence. His open hand on his escort’s chest balled as he trembled with wild emotion. With a high-pitched squeal, the smaller man was tossed back into the storeroom they had exited. The door closing behind his flailing form did nothing to hide the cracking of wood and the smashing of glass. A rapidly whimpering cry and decreasing thumping sounds of something weighty on wood signaled his unmitigated topple down the unseen stairs within.
Risens darted toward the interior of the tavern, but his progress was arrested abruptly by a hefty hand on his shoulder. He winced as the vice-like grip of the pub’s proprietor crushed down on him.