The arrogant air that surrounded Fendri faltered with a gasp.

  “What do you have on your face?” he demanded, his mouth contorted into a look of shock. His complexion reddened rapidly. His cheeks, most prominently, assumed the vibrant hue of roses. “You will take that off at once. You will not disgrace him by wearing that in the sanctity of the King’s halls. What do you mean, showing up here dressed like a circus performer?”

  The anger that brightened his face was bizarrely muffled by the shock in his tone. His jowls trembled in rage, the emotion radiating throughout his frame until his entire body quivered. Though his ire was squarely focused on Risens, Fendri kept taking jerking glances over his shoulder into the council chamber.

  “Your commands mean nothing to me, steward,” Risens growled, using the title as if it were the most vile of insults. “The King awaits. Let him bother with my appearance.”

  He stepped forward, angling his shoulder to force the man from his path. Fendri’s hand against his chest brought his momentum to a surprising stop. Push as he might, even with his legs, the effort was futile. Like shoving a mountain.

  Risens paused, glaring at the King’s steward, startled by the man’s sudden fortitude. “What trick is this? Step aside.”

  “It is a dangerous game you play, Rightmaker.” There was a disturbing power behind Fendri’s words, a hint of malevolence that Risens never experienced in the man’s tone. “Much has been spent and still more has been allocated to your training. To your success. Take care that you do not throw it away foolishly.” As the words finished, the utter harshness of his voice faded, reverting to a passive monotone drone. “His Majesty will see you now.”

  Fendri calmly stepped aside as if he hadn’t just shown a shocking display of power. With a sweep of his arm, he flattened himself against the wall, allowing for Risens to pass.

  As Risens did just that, the steward’s eyes remained fixed squarely forward, his face emotionless on the door.

  Risens was without words. The sudden and unexpected vehemence and strength from Fendri made even his steps falter.

  At times, he had admitted a measure of respect at the seemingly unflappable poise of the steward, yet this was entirely different. The threat that emanated from him was palpable. Raw. For the first time in his life, Risens considered the irritating man in an entirely new light. One that was steeped in the mystery of unexpected power.

  His mind frantically thumbed through the pages of the Raven’s Guide. The calling of the steward was one unerring obedience and fealty. There were a few Brands he could think of that would fit a man of his station, the Brand of the Devoted—granted for unyielding obeisance. The bearer, sharing a connection with their master, can communicate through feelings over distances. The Brand of the Tranquil—typically seen in butlers and maids, proving their even-keel, temperance, and subservience to their masters’ will. Beyond the marking burned into the back of their hand, this provided no exemplary skills. It was merely a show that their services were earned, trusted, and uncontested.

  Neither of these Brands—nor the third that came to mind—produced anything close to the ominous effect that had followed Fendri’s words. With hundreds of known Brands, Risens would need to do more research when time permitted.

  He had butted against the boundaries of respect with the man hundreds of times throughout the years. There was no love lost between them—never was. Why now, with all the insults and even threats of harm over the last few days, had he crossed that line?

  The presence of the Shadows Shroud was the difference.

  Was it merely the mask alone, or was it something more? That Fendri knew more than he had let on, Risens was certain. He realized that, beyond his service to the King, he knew nothing of the man’s history.

  Risens’ all-consuming thoughts left him as he crossed the threshold into the council chambers. There was no time for naval-gazing. He would have to play these next minutes right, or possibly face the same fate as the Lady Myrenas.

  Fendri’s heavy footsteps announced their arrival. Perhaps the solid flapping of his feet on the ground had been intentional all along.

  The council chamber was perhaps the most opulent of the castle’s rooms that Risens was permitted access to. Gold was present in everything—the chandeliers, the walls, the table, down to the very rug the nobles trod upon. Sixteen chairs, trimmed with bands of vibrant gold, were spaced evenly around a pair of massive semi-circular tables—eight to each one. An opening between the two provided ample berth for servants to provide refreshments or for the King to maneuver amongst the councilors. At the head, positioned on a platform a meter above the others, the colossal throne of King Lathrenon towered over the room. The gilded throne, a four-meter-tall raven, its wings spread so wide it couldn’t fail to command the attention of the main hall.

  King Lathrenon stood before it. Even with such an imposing structure at his rear, he didn’t forsake one iota of his authority. His arms were folded behind his back, his gaze tracking Risens from the instant he stepped into the room.

  “Approach, Rightmaker.”

  Until now, Fendri shadowed him. Upon the King’s command, the steward peeled off to his side, his weighty steps punishing the carpet, not the naked stone tiles of the floor. Risens obeys, rounding the table to enter through the opposite gap in their curving orientation. He stopped in the open center, bowing deeply as was expected.

  Lathrenon leaned ever so slightly as Fendri approached his side. Of all those with access to His Excellency, only Fendri was granted the freedom to stand upon the golden dais. The steward whispered something into the King’s ear. The length of the statement was curious, though it was overshadowed by movement from the rear of the chamber.

  Risens whispered a soft curse.

  There, lurking in the shadows of the throne, Magus Pol watched him approach with a look of caustic scrutiny.

  Risens would never shy from a fight, but the magus made him increasingly wary. In stature alone, there was nothing impressive about the man. He was of average height and build—perhaps even running a bit on the hefty side. He sported a short, salt-and-pepper beard and long, but neatly cropped hair. In any gathering, the man was ideally suited to be easily overlooked, though anyone who mistook his plainness for lack of ability was likely to meet a tragic end. His eyes were what gave Risens the most pause. They were alarming, as if gold had intertwined with red-hot streaks of unquenched metal straight from the smith’s forge. They had a way of piercing through those who faced his equally burning inquisitions. Rumors still echoed through the city that he had used the magic at his command to enhance their look, yet there was no proof to this claim.

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  “It seems today has been an eventful day,” Lathrenon announced as Risens straightened his back and returned to an upright posture.

  His tone was surprisingly serene. After the brutal execution of Lady Myrenas, the King had been in high dudgeon. It was made perfectly clear that avoiding him at all costs was essential if one valued their life. Now, he spoke with a tone that was alarmingly diffused. Though everyone knew the sea was the calmest before the storm.

  “I am relieved to see that you are unhurt.” The King strode forward, taking the dais steps slowly, deliberately.

  Fendri cocked his head, careful not to show too much emotion.

  Every one of Risens’ muscles tensed, those that had taken the most damage in his last battle—namely, his right arm—quivered under the stress. Though he struggled, he remained impassive even as the King drew closer. Thankfully, the Shadows Shroud covered his face, for he had practiced in the art of feigning peace as was the steward.

  The King stopped less than a meter away, and outstretched his hands. Risens, feeling as if he would once again find himself under attack, steeled himself. His Excellency squeezed his chin and twisted Risens’ head from side to side. In a bizarre mirror of Mother Raven’s actions, the King traced the lines of the mask. He made a noncommittal sound, then prodded Risens’ cheek in the very place where the shards from the mageVial had bounced off the metal. With another slight huff, he released his hold, stepping back before walking slowly in a circle toward Risens’ rear.

  “As I am satisfied that you still live, gratified that you saw fit to heed my warnings, to remedy the error that nearly compromised your identity.”

  Risens maintained his posture, his head and gaze straight, never faltering from their forward position, and his hands purposefully still at his sides. His eyes, however, followed the King’s movement peripherally.

  “Smart choice,” Lathrenon continued. “For once. Fendri has vouched for your wisdom, and it seems he was not wrong in choosing a mask befitting of your station.”

  Had he not been prepared for some measure of shock, the revelation would have robbed him of his footing. That must have been what Fendri had whispered to the King upon their arrival.

  But why? Why had he chosen to spare Risens what was to be, at best, ridicule, and at worst, a beheading?

  Risens fought the urge to snap his attention to the steward, instead choosing to bury his gaze into the details of the elaborate golden throne.

  “You’ve chosen the symbol wisely and—judging from the scar on the metal—the construction as well.” Lathrenon wended his way through the tables back toward his throne. Ascending the two steps to the throne, he seated himself comfortably on the plush cushion. “It is one that has been widely used throughout the ages, yet I caution you to not let it define you.”

  Risens held in his relief as the King, at the whispered words of Fendri, had assembled the excuse for him. As he had not questioned him further, he had no reason to elaborate.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “My good steward has already filled me in on the happenings in the hedge maze, yet I must hear the telling from your mouth as well.” Lathrenon leaned back against the throne, readjusting more than once to make himself more comfortable.

  Without wasting time, Risens replayed the attempt on his life and the failure of the unknown assassins. He carefully omitted the references to the potency of the Cimmerian Calcify—the mageVial that was meant to incapacitate. At the end of his tale, it was Magus Pol who stepped forward, whispering into the King’s ear.

  At a nod from Lathrenon, he stepped forward. “We have deciphered but a small portion of the tome of the Dream Catcher that you recovered,” he stated. The tone of his voice was as unnatural as the hue of his eyes. It was simultaneously grating and melodic, forming a disastrously unsettling mixture of sounds. “It concerns me that the level of sophistication you speak of is not found anywhere in these pages. The code is complex, yet it is archaic. Had they the talent to produce—or afford—a mage, either one strong enough to create the mageVials you’ve recovered or purchase them outright, is a feat that would not have gone undocumented.

  Risens gritted his teeth. “I assure you—”

  “The magus you murdered was a man by the name of Magus Quan,” Pol explained, his words rolling over Risens as if he had no care to hear anything but his own voice. “I recognized him immediately—even in the condition in which you’d left him. He was an acquaintance of mine… from the Academy.”

  Risens was nonplused, especially at the astonishingly rapid identification of the magus.

  “Surely, he would have been capable of making the mageVials,” Risens said.

  “Doubtful,” Magus Pol shook his head. “Quan was gifted with his wards and fire, yet he never expressed interest in the practical arts. He always said that a magus’ duty was in their spells, not bottles.”

  “And the silencing ward?”

  “Well within his abilities,” Pol said. “Truly, you should consider yourself lucky that you eliminated him first. It would be your ashes scattered across the maze.”

  “And yet it was his remains you found in such a condition.”

  “Indeed.” The Magus looked back at the King before nodding in deference. “Indeed. With only that word, he stepped back to the side of the golden throne.

  Without asking permission, Risens spoke again, a move he knew few would dare in the presence of His Royal Excellency. “Your Majesty, forgive me if I appear confused.”

  “Go on,” Lathrenon said, showing genuine interest.

  “It just seems as if I am being accused of something here beyond defending myself and the castle against a threat.”

  A barely perceptible smile kissed the King’s lips. “Accused? No. You have done well, my Rightmaker. In fact, several among the assassins had faces that could be identified. They are well known to us. Though it was years ago, one had a hand—at least in small part—to your advanced training.”

  Perhaps Risens had experienced such shocking revelations that no more could twist his gut, but at this, only curiosity tickled him. “In the employ of the crown?”

  Fendri gasped at the allegation. “How dare you—”

  “I merely meant at the time of my training,” Risens said.

  “Sadly, yes,” the King admitted. “These were all masters of their crafts. Though in some cases, grumbles of their dissent have been noted. Nothing we’ve yet uncovered can tie them to the cursed Dreamcatchers. Their lips may be sealed in death, but their families will talk, or they will join them in Pylkev. I will happily oblige by making more examples of them if I must.”

  The King’s eyes flashed with a fire that rivaled Magus Pol’s. The sudden distortion faded as quickly as it had ignited. Through the anger, there was a longing that sent a chill down Risens’ spine. He had reveled in the brutal execution. He craved it. The drought would be supplanted by the rain of blood.

  “The vault at Lady Myrenas’ estate continues to thwart our efforts. Even with their experience and wisdom, the magi are vexed.”

  Magus Pol shifted uncomfortably at this.

  Lathrenon leaned forward in his throne, his back rigid. “Tell me, Rightmaker, how were you able to gain access while we were not?”

  Risens felt no direct accusation in the King’s tone, yet he knew his words would be analysed with extreme scrutiny.

  “The room, like the hedge, was warded to prevent sounds from passing beyond the doorway,” he explained, pivoting quickly as his mind connected the two events. “It was Myrenas’s voice that opened the vault. She whispered something into the butler statue’s ear.”

  “I see,” the King said, tossing a glance at Pol.

  “Unfortunately, I could neither make out the words nor read her lips. It was the protection of the ward that allowed me to follow her unnoticed, Your Majesty.”

  Risens’ lie could potentially return to bite him, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t very well admit that, in addition to the mask he now wore, he had also received the ability to perfectly mimic the voice of Lady Myrenas?

  He suffered under the King’s fiery glare for a few moments before the intensity passed. “As you no doubt could guess, the windSteps to the hedge maze will be shuttered in light of the ambush. It is clear that they know too much. And if this was not perpetrated by the Dreamcatchers, then we have larger problems at hand. Adalhard’s will be closed as well. Word reached my royal ear of a break-in at the Bank of Tomes. The vault was ravaged, yet if any knows what was taken, no one is speaking of it.”

  Once again, Risens found himself between duty and his own self-interests. If he told the King it was he who had broken into Adalhard’s, he would then be at risk of revealing the reason why. Namely, his attempt to identify the Brands that he’d gained over the last week.

  “Let this serve as a warning to you,” the King continued, “that your vigilance will be needed in the coming days. For the short term, the windSteps and the city will bother you no more. I have business for you beyond Windwake. Beyond the borders of this realm.”