“There is no need to re-litigate that which has already been established,” Mother Raven hissed. “You will receive nothing you are unworthy of. I can see that you comprehend my meaning. We will not suffer this conversation again.”

  “That skill you just used, will I have access to that one day?” He intentionally measured the tone of his voice, disguising any aggravation at the continued cryptic relationship between the Mother Raven and the voice that thundered in his mind.

  “Perhaps. That and many more will be at your disposal.” She grinned. “What you just witnessed is a skill called Dull Flight. It is the most basic form of flight available. Flight is a path available to you, should you choose its course.”

  The mention of flight gave Risens pause, and he nearly missed the rest of her speech. Would he truly be able to fly someday? That would make his job as the King’s Rightmaker simpler. Carry out a task, then disappear into the night’s sky without bearing the exhaustion of running through Windwake’s winding streets.

  “All have their uses in situations,” she continued. “All can be enhanced until mastery has been proven. Much like the Shadows Shroud, you have only just scratched the surface. Control over its presence, resistance to airborne toxins, and the ability to sustain life underwater are limited. For now.”

  The potential at hand was astounding. True power lurked within the Roost, its skills for the taking, yet he still had no indication of why he’d been chosen, nor the ultimate purpose of the skills.

  “Which path should I choose next?” he asked.

  “Not die from your own carelessness,” she cawed. “Only you can dictate where your next footfall lands. Perhaps the empty pages of that book you nearly threw your life away for will hold the answer. Perhaps not. Though quite curious that a thing so polished would be left unfinished, don’t you think, fledgling?”

  One moment, she stood along the left side of the shrine, her finger carefully probing the tip of a fully extended raven’s wing. Next, she was at its other side, staring inquisitively at its face.

  “Never mistake guidance for authority,” she warned. “Just as you must never confuse obedience with allegiance. It is not I you follow, nor will I hold your hand. The decisions are entirely yours to make. The consequences, likewise, are yours to bear. In all things, true allegiance can only be afforded to one. A man cannot have two masters. Your heart will be the first to understand, the mind will be slow to follow.”

  Risens continued to be annoyed by her answers. She had provided far more information in this interaction, though it was as easy as milking water from a stone.

  “There will come a time when you must choose between all things.” Her voice was a faint whisper now. “Your path. Loyalties. Life and even death. The trials before you will either harden you for that moment or prove your failure.”

  “What do you think it will show?” he asked, turning his eyes from the opened shine back to Mother Raven. The flapping of wings and the lingering feather were her response. High above, the dark silhouette of a raven marked the azure blue of the afternoon sky.

  Risens watched the circling bird for a few heartbeats before turning back to the statue. At the foot of the stone raven-man, a pair of feathers remained from where the Dull Flight had aided her movements. As twisted as it seemed, she had provided him with the guidance he needed. The access to the doors within the Roost.

  Slipping through the discomfort of the portal, the grandeur of the Roost greeted him. He was unsurprised that neither the lanterns on the wall were lit, nor the individual doors illuminated. It seemed that the revelation of each door persisted while he remained inside the temple, yet once he returned to the Raven’s Court, it reverted to its original state.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Greetings, friends,” he offered as the hollow stares of the stone ravens twisted on their pedestals to follow him. Placing his satchel near the looming shrine at the end of the hall, he set about the familiar task of revealing the pathways, ones he now knew would lead him to untold strength and skills. With the assistance of one of the candles Tawny had provided, the process was accomplished quickly and with far less pain.

  The last doorway he brightened was the first he’d chosen during his previous visit. Curiously enough, when the darkness melted off under the candles’ light, it was only the void of the wavering portal that stood before him. Stepping through, he found the room within physically unchanged, yet the call, the urge of the power drawing him to the small shrine at the end, was eerily absent. In its place, the room felt hollow and morose.

  Shaking off the destitution he now experienced, he returned to the Roost and the ever-watchful gaze of the ravens. He paused in the center of the hall, his gaze tracking across the newly illuminated doors. Prior to completing the first trial, the doors had reverted to darkness when he’d exited, yet now they remained illuminated. With the task complete and the reward earned, failure was no longer an option. It was just conjecture, but it made as much sense as most of the Roost. He still knew nothing of the strange markings on each. The inky, impenetrable shadows blocking the sight of the doors on the upper levels were perplexing. Far too high for him to reach.

  He considered exiting to Windwake and returning with a ladder. As convenient as the idea seemed, he doubted it would be tolerated. He shrugged off the frustration, the realization that he was still playing a game without knowing the rules. Even if it were to work, there was something about it that felt wholly inappropriate.

  Mother Raven’s words nagged at him. The trials were meant to test him, to strengthen his body and mind. Though there was sense in particular efficiencies, he doubted that was the purpose. Besides, the ladder would likely only provide access to the next floor; those above would require something further. Something he knew he would find within these hallowed halls.

  Flight.

  That was it! The skill that Mother Raven had used with terrifying proficiency may allow him to reach the higher floors, just as it had allowed her to move from place to place. If true, which doorway granted access to its chamber, and the test within that would lead him down the path of Flight?

  The lack of clarity was disheartening. The absence of understanding, aggravating. He swept his gaze across the chamber, wishing that his cryptic guide were there. Her answers, veiled as they were, could still provide more context to the present circumstances.

  “Which door would you have me choose?” he inquired of the closest raven statue that watched him with unblinking stone eyes from its perch above the pool of flames.

  Only fools reject the wisdom of counsel. The watchers will not speak, yet listen they will.

  There was a peculiar indignation in the tone of the words. Again, he tamped down his own emotions, choosing to refocus his study of the individual doors for anything that might provide a clue to the powers held within. The Brand of the Avowal on his chest, loosely shaped after the face of the raven, had granted him the Shadows Shroud. He saw the connection between the design and the skill. Perhaps the marking of others would offer further clues to their eventual purpose.

  Risens ambled through the hall, taking time to study each of the etched designs in the elaborately carved doors. The Brand of the Avowal, the one that had started it all, that had granted him the mask, was the precursor, the key allowing him access to the Roost. He saw its marking on one door, clear as day, yet the others appeared to be merely runes, much like the ones flashing in his vision when the Shadows Shroud was removed. One looked unsurprisingly like a feather, yet the rest were an abstract collection of shapes.

  He had a tentative understanding of the numbering system, yet these were beyond his current knowledge. He paused as his circuit of the room ended in front of the immense statue of the raven. Scanning the impressive form of the bird, his vision settled on the stone pedestal with the tome sealed to its surface. Again, he tried moving the pages forward or back, yet it was apparent none of his efforts would produce the results he sought. Taking a break to search for understanding within the open page, he removed the Raven’s Guide and pencil from his breast pocket, turning to the first blank page at the rear. Placing it on the opposite side of the pedestal, he lowered the lead to the page to begin tracing the Brand and script.

  The acrid scent of something burning stopped the tip of the pencil before it ever made contact with the page. He watched in awe as the neat script burned itself letter by letter into the page.

  The Forbidden Brands.

  As it moved in immaculate handwriting by an unseen hand, the page turned carefully, gently settling on the next open page at the rear of the tome. Small tendrils of smoke twisted up from the parchment as a symbol, and words from the larger stone tablet were transferred to his compact version.