The room beyond was like nothing Risens had ever seen. Every free meter of the massive chamber was lined with rack upon rack of weapons. He’d never had the opportunity to visit the castle armory, having his personal selection procured and provided to his own personal store. The deadly vault had to have been several hundred meters long, lit by evenly spaced iron chandeliers glowing with soft, blue mageLight.

  Swords and daggers were by far the most abundant, taking up most of the wall along the left side of the room. The most prevalent bladed weapon, the standard armament for the King’s army, was the short sword. Tens of thousands of the polished blades hung neatly on racks. He had to assume the titanic crates along the walls were also filled with the same.

  Beyond the standard equipment, there was an impressive variety of other swords and daggers, ranging from throwing knives to the thick, curved blades used primarily by those in the southern regions, and thinner ones preferred in the north. Additionally, massive claymores and bastard swords hung in Xs, likely used by only a select few who could summon the strength to wield such a heavy weapon.

  As the swords had dominated the left wall, ranged weapons held sway over the right. Arrows and bolts by the thousands were hung carefully off the pegs affixed to the wall, stacked at least half a dozen deep. Bows, both strung and unlimbered, commanded the wall closest the arrows, while adjacent to the bolts were scores of crossbows.

  Shining, deadly tops of the various polearms loomed high over the others while axes, hammers, maces, flails, and every other conceivable weapon stretched on into the distance.

  Risens had known the armory was expansive, but the sheer volume was daunting. Halthome’s military might was impressive, yet this storeroom alone could arm tens of thousands more, regardless of which armament they favored.

  “What, no armor?” Risens inquired sarcastically.

  A few steps ahead, Fendri finally stopped as if he only just realized he was being followed. He grunted again, though this time, it was unclear whether out of feigned humor or ongoing annoyance.

  “The armory spans several rooms,” he explained. “To the right, the armor. The training chambers and smithy are to the left. I would caution you, if you ever find yourself here again, to avoid that room at all costs. They are displeasurable in the best of times.”

  The steward started marching again.

  Risens admired the quality of the steel as the racks of blades filed by. As impressive as it was, with every step, he appreciated his personal collection even more. Vagon had trained him in the use of all weapons, but to one accustomed to the specific design, feel, and weight of his daggers, he’d be lost among the endless options.

  The insatiable Ravens Talons would be his service blades—as their time permitted—though he understood the necessity of always maintaining a second pair as the inevitable cooldown could be deadly in a fight. It seemed that each time the talons drew blood, a measure of the time was restored, but he’d yet to determine the precise duration. With the upcoming task at hand, he knew there would be sufficient opportunities.

  “I have procured your typical load-out,” Fendri announced as they veered to the left, passing the last racks of crossed swords. Several doors exited off the long hallway before him. The hint of sulfur and the muted clang of hammer on steel hung in the air. “You’re free to maintain your current attire while you travel, though the black will likely draw more attention. The decision remains yours. Extra layers will be welcomed as the weather throughout the pass can be frigid. When you assault the warlord’s keep, however, the provided uniforms of Shial G’moka, must be worn.”

  The G’moka were the elite warriors of Shial’s Kyeku province and Risens knew that this particular arrangement had been made to hide his party’s facial features. The cloth traditionally worn by the G’Moka both covered their faces and hung from their helmets to shield their face and necks from the harsh and bitter winds.

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  Risen voiced his understanding, acknowledging the King’s plan. Warlord Trufang would fall. Any who witnessed his death would pin it on the neighboring province. Infighting among the United Nations of Shial was welcomed far more than the attention falling on Halthome. With resources already stretched thin due to the ongoing drought, further rationing would likely lead to a revolt. A rebellion that Lathrenon could ill afford.

  “There is enough dried food to last each of you a week,” Fendri said. “In addition, you will find a bedroll—it’s not comfortable—a tent, rope, extra clothing, and rappelling gear. I needn’t remind you that Breakker’s Pass and the surrounding mountains are as treacherous as they are steep.”

  They passed the entrances to several large training spaces, each with a dirt floor, heavily scarred by errant slashes and chipped and gouged by heavy blows. A haggard selection of straw dummies sighed in relief as they continued past. Nearing the end of the path, Fendri exited the chamber to follow another hallway into the castle—this one barred with a heavy metal gate. The level of security for the single, nondescript door and the rickety wooden chair guarding it was puzzling.

  The mageLock, tuned to the steward, opened with a groan.

  Inside, the steward collected a cloak and tunic and handed it to Risens. Deciding to listen to the man’s advice, he quickly donned the tunic, slipping the second cloak over his currently equipped one. Clearly crafted by tailors who understood their purpose, it was plain—a drab grey—though it contained all the concealed pockets and was reinforced with thin metal plates. Somehow, it still maintain his movement even over a second garment. The tunic had a curious, but thoughtfully designed neck, one that, when strapped properly, could be slipped on comfortably even with the Shadows Shroud.

  Fendri stood patiently by the door, waiting for him to adjust his outfit. A thought sprang to Risens’ mind—a curious one, but the implications made it plausible. “The code that was used to decipher the Dreamcatchers' tome—do you know it?”

  He had little doubt that Fendri had provided the code to the symbols. He was the King’s steward, and had been so for as long as he’d heard tell. That he knew far more than he let on was a certainty. From the look of surprise that flashed across Fendri’s face, Risens ascertained he had caught the man off guard. He expected the demand for why he needed the code, so Risens cut him off before he could speak.

  “If Trufang is connected to the Dreamcatchers, there might be valuable information in those writings. Having timely clues to the warlord’s plans could mean the difference between life and ruin. If it was they who tried to kill me in the hedges, they possess a level of sophistication and funding far beyond what we know.”

  Fendri chewed his lip, the features of his face scrunching in deep thought. After a few moments, he relaxed, letting out a sigh. “I see no harm in that. Be you mindful of the company you will take. Do not share this with the others.”

  “Do you not trust them?”

  “It matters little who I trust,” Fendri snapped. “I’ve never trusted you, yet the King has seen fit to give you the position of Rightmaker.”

  “And you, the position of royal kiss-ass.”

  Fendri sneered. “It was not Lathrenon who gave me the title.”

  The steward’s face betrayed the quickest hint that he’d shared something he hadn’t intended to. Risens, knowing he’d gain no more information by pushing, let it go. He would, however, revisit the information at a later time.

  “The code?” Risens said, stretching a hand outward.

  Fendri sucked in a deep breath, then removed a small pad and pencil from his breast pocket. With quick but careful intent, he scratched the code onto the page before tearing it off and handing it over.

  Risens tucked it discreetly into his breast pocket beside the Raven’s Guide.

  Fendri started to turn but stopped himself before reaching the door on the far side, where Risens could only assume concealed a windStep.

  Turning to view Risens with a peculiar gaze, he said, “Your tasks to this point have been entirely domestic.” His voice was hushed as if afraid to be overheard. “Go with the might of Halthome. Know that if you are compromised beyond these lands, there will be none to come to your aid. You will be a ghost left to haunt the foreign terrain. Keep your wits about you. Mind your surroundings and your company.”

  That was the second time in as many minutes the steward had warned him to be cautious around the other assassins tasked to join him. But before he could open his mouth to speak, Fendri placed his hand on the wooden door. The hollow clicking sound of the bolt signaling the mageLock’s disengagement echoed through the stone hallway.

  “Come. The assassins wait within.”