“A number of our company are posted throughout the city. Don’t bother to look for them, you will not find them. Unlike you, they’ve already passed this portion of their training.”

  Vagon spoke in a deep voice, his southern accent unmistakable.

  Risens, at nine years of age, looked up at the man as if he were a giant. “I bet I’d find a couple of them.”

  Vagon glared down at him, his dark skin glistening with sweat in the hot light of day. These drills were always done during the daytime. An assassin must never be seen, even when the sun does its damnedest to expose them.

  “If you could, they would be dead already,” Vagon said. “Now, it will be your job to traverse the city from here to the Exposition without being sighted. If even one of my men reports your actions, it will be ten lashes.”

  Risens groaned, though kept the noise mostly to himself.

  “If more than one sees you,” Vagon continued, “consider another ten for each man.”

  “And if they lie?”

  “We do not lie,” Vagon warned. “For the cause, yes. But not to each other, and not to the King.”

  ***

  Risens had called Windwake home for all his life, but it wasn’t the prospect of leaving the realm that churned his gut. Having only recently discovered the Roost and its powers, being forced to leave it behind now, even temporarily, felt akin to a punishment—as if he were being banished to the dungeons to rot for decades.

  “There is one name within the document you recovered that has been repeated, and it is one I know well: Sagra Trufang.” King Lathrenon spat out the words like sour milk. “That the warlord conspires with the Dreamcatchers against Halthome, I have no doubt. He was the sole voice in Shial opposed to the trade agreement that would allow the flow of much-needed grain and spices into Windwake.

  “The curse that has fallen over Halthome—the droughts that have robbed the land of its bounty—have disproportionately affected my realm over the others.” The King rose from his chair. Fendri stood aside as His Excellency took the steps before pacing the gap between the massive council tables. “Warlord Trufang reigns over the lands just along the northern border of the Shail Sliver. It is through his land that the Breakker’s Pass runs. I need this route cleared so trade may be established. The warlord must be taught the error of his ways.”

  The challenge of the task ignited a spark of excitement in Risens, alleviating the pressing worry over the complications that his mask might present. Windwake was starving; the people needed food. The King risked much with his efforts to establish trade with Shial. Though the land suffered from a lack of exports, likely none were displeased that the gambit weakened their neighbor to the south. The assignment risked igniting a war with the nation while the citizens of Halthome starved.

  “You will not go on this task alone,” the King continued to Risens’ surprise. “You will lead a party of six. Behind your skills, they are among the finest assassins in the realm. Their allegiance to me is unquestioned.”

  The last statement was peculiar, though Risens worked to keep the emotion from registering in his eyes. That the King felt the need to profess their devotion was curious. To his Rightmaker, such things as the royal assassins swearing utmost fealty would be law. To risk outright war at the hands of killers who had not been vetted would be foolish—one thing he knew Lathrenon was not.

  “Access to the path must be restored. Leave none alive.” This time, the King’s words were accompanied by the familiar dread that surrounded his person.

  Knowing the influence of true power, Lathrenon’s conviction felt tainted, childish, and weak. His recent brutality and thirst for blood were telling—he had become desperate.

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  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Risens bowed.

  “Yes, yes. The others will be gathered by the time you join them.” The King stopped his pacing, standing like a statue, regal and proud, folding his hands behind his back.

  Until a few days ago, the man had commanded an aura that radiated strength and control. Risens had willingly drenched his blades in the blood of the traitors to the realm for the benefit of the Kingdom. Now, the man stood rigid with jaundiced eyes. All Risens saw before him was a self-serving, wicked man, propped up by the power of the Brand that defined him.

  “There will be answers when you return, Lathrenon assured. “An attempt on your life is an attempt of mine.”

  Risens cringed at the assertion from a man who did little of the bloody work himself. It was he who fought for his life, outnumbered eight to one while the King lounged in his quarters.

  “You will leave under the cover of darkness and return to me once the warlord and his ilk have been destroyed. Kill the man; burn the rest to the ground. It goes without saying that none may know that Halthome had any hand in this. The lawless borderlands of Shial will provide the cover you need. Do not fail me, Rightmaker.”

  Risens met the King’s gaze, bracing himself as he weathered the intensity. The air around him was filled with a constricting pressure, like the gods themselves wanted him to know that they could crush him where he stood. Over his shoulder, at the corner of the regal throne, Magus Pol’s lips moved subtly as if mouthing words.

  “Your gear will be ready for you,” Lathrenon concluded. “Return to me when the Warlord is dead.” He then added, “Fendri, see that he's equipped.”

  Turning on his heel, the King ascended the steps, depositing himself on the throne that, for the first time to Risens’ eyes, looked fraudulent.

  With violent tearing that ripped through his very soul, the cracks that had formed as a hairline at first now spread into a vast fissure. It was wide enough that he no longer knew if he could cross it safely.

  Or if he even wanted to try.

  Offering another subtle nod, Risens followed Fendri, this time through a different concealed exit in the council chamber, hidden along the opposite wall. Having spent time in the council chambers on many occasions, he’d identified the disguised doorways, though he’d never been afforded the freedom to explore. As he followed Fendri into the dimly lit adjoining pathway, he realized just how little of the castle complex he had traversed. His hands fell to the handles of his eager blades as his senses tuned to warning.

  He knew the pathways he stalked with an intimate familiarity. It would be nearly impossible for any to surprise him there. Following the steward into the unknown, he knew nothing of what lurked around each corner. Keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings, he used the man as an unknowing shield, stepping directly where his feet had noisily fallen.

  “The King may have overlooked your mask this time, but your cavalier attitude will see you dead. Do not bear it in his presence again,” Fendri grumbled, though he kept his attention forward as he led the way.

  That he had offered his assistance through whispered words into the King’s ear was puzzling. Risens had a bleeding hatred for the impertinent man, loathing him likely as much as Fendri despised him. Why had he fabricated the details of the mask to the King when, moments earlier, the abject disgust at its appearance on Risens’ face had been palpable?

  “You whispered something to the king,” Risens said, unable to address the question that needed to be answered.

  Fendri grunted.

  “Why?”

  “I have already told you that too much has been devoted to your training to risk your demise by stupidity and carelessness.” The acidic tone with which he responded made it clear he had no further inclination to discuss the subject.

  So, Risens followed in silence, his attention focused on the potential pitfalls and hazards of the unexplored passages. Making a corner, the wavering black void of a windStep came into view.

  Fendri didn’t slow as he stepped into the darkness.

  Risens, however, stopped, sighed, and wrapped his hand around his blade in preparation. If a trap were to be sprung, the exit to the portal would be the most logical location. The disorientation from the passing would be brief, but it would take only a moment and a proper stroke for one’s head to be removed from his body. In a crouch, with his weight on the balls of his feet, he stalked into the portal.

  Gray and black whizzed by on both sides, and then the stone walls of the chamber beyond came into focus. A few steps ahead, Fendri still marched onward, his determined pace undeterred. The hall was not unlike most of the interior of the castle that Risens was, indeed, familiar with. Carefully shaped and fitted stones formed the walls and arching ceiling overhead. He noted the disguised, square faces of the summoning stones mixed in with the natural rock at both ends of the hall.

  Fendri continued, the steward’s weight only making a dull thump as they stomped along the blood red carpet that ran along the center of the hallway—the crimson path ended at the heavy, reinforced wooden door. A pair of rigid sentries, lifeless statues in heavy armor, each holding a shield bearing the crest of the realm and a wicked-looking halberd, guarded either side of the entrance. Their gleaming, flawless mail was purely ceremonial, having never been hardened in the forges of battle. Fendri pushed against the door without hesitation, and the panel swung noiselessly inward.