Risens had no choice but to remove the Shadows Shroud as he entered the windStep leading to his private quarters. The awkwardness of the movement faded, though the disquiet of his skin in the absence of the facial covering remained a constant nag on his senses—the least of these, the flashing symbols.

  What he found waiting for him at the doorway was worse still.

  Irritation and impatience dripped from Fendri’s every feature—from the scowl on his face to the curvature of his spine. “The alarm bells of the city have yet to ring, alerting His Excellence of your coming.”

  “And yet, here I am.”

  Risens considered using his new skill, letting the man hear just how annoying his voice was. It wasn’t compassion that stayed him, but the knowledge that Fendri might somehow be the key to unlocking the mysteries of the Raven’s Court. After all, he seemed to know the language. Perhaps he knew more.

  Every moment spent in the man’s presence was torture. Not for the first time, and surely not the last, Risens silently cursed the King for protecting the steward’s life.

  “You’ve made the King wait long enough,” Fendri continued, ignoring the barb.

  “I was given the order to report tomorrow, Fendri,” Risens said, his tone as weary as he felt. He stopped a pace away, but didn’t have it in him to pose a threat. Fendri knew who he was; he knew how skillful he was with his blades. He was also keenly aware that Risens needed no blades to send him to Pylkev and the eternal damnation that no doubt awaited the slimy bastard. Yet even as Risens loomed over him, he showed no fear. It would only take slight pressure, here or here, his eyes tracked to the pressure spots that would immobilize the self-important man, though he forced his face into a smile again. He couldn’t afford to waste the time or risk losing the opportunity to probe Fendri for answers.

  “Do you suppose he should wait for his absent killer before making all realmly decisions? The timing of his requests is his concern. And now, they are yours. He seeks your presence in the Overlook. Now.”

  Risens bit his tongue as he held in the acidic response that threatened to escape his mouth. He decided that changing the subject was the best course before he failed his eternal quest of not strangling the man.

  “Lead on, your lordship.” He added a flourish to his words, and Fendri looked as if he might respond. However, the man thankfully bit his own tongue before striding further into the castle.

  The insults of the King’s steward were commonplace and expected at this point; however, Risens noted a peculiarity as they walked past the door to his private chambers. Fendri never failed to point out Risens’ faults—neither real nor imagined. He was quick to remind anyone who would listen of the assistance he’d given. He could inflate the most innate task, such as fetching new clothing from the castle tailor, into a valiant quest, one worthy enough for song and praise as the savior of Halthome.

  But his continued silence as they moved past the clinic and the training rooms was telling. There was no way he could have left the cipher nailed to Risens’ private quarter’s wall and refrained from taking credit.

  Perhaps a bit of coaxing. “Were the scholars able to place the design I provided?”

  Fendri needed not turn his head to fully express his continued indignation. “Do you think they—no—do you think that we all sit around the palace waiting for the return of the prodigal assassin only to turn ourselves inside out at your call?”

  It wasn’t an answer.

  Fendri sighed. “I have never understood what the King sees in you. Not from your first day, and my opinion remains unchained.”

  Still not an answer.

  “So that’s a ‘no,’ then?” Risens smirked, but Fendri, a few strides ahead, didn’t see it.

  “When they provide me the report,” the steward snapped, “rest assured that I’ll drop everything to hasten it to you.”

  “My eternal gratit—”

  “I’m certain that the King would be very much obliged to wait.” Fendri scoffed. “The utter arrogance.”

  If King Lathrenon’s protected servant had no answers to give, Risens had need of him no longer. The one thing he was certain of was that he could make it to the King quicker without waiting for the man to lead him. He knew the way blindfolded, and he was certain he was faster.

  He timed his movement, sliding past the man just as they reached the narrow doorway into the halls beyond. With a not-so-gentle shoulder, he bumped Fendri off course. He was rewarded by the solid sound of the slapping of flesh against the polished stone of the wall and the effluent curses that trailed in his wake as he disappeared into the darkened passage.

  Quickening thoughts accompanied his hastening steps as he worked his way through the castle’s hidden corridors. That Fendri gave no indication about the cipher brought both relief and alarm. Risens in no way wanted to be indebted to the man, even in terms of such a trivial action. However, he could have almost stomached the intrusion of the King’s servant into his private chambers. Were it someone else…?

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  But he’d told no one of the symbol apart from the King and Fendri. He knew no trace of it would ever return from the crew that had cleaned the Duke’s estate. If Fendri had provided it to the castle scholars, who amongst their number would have had the means to deposit it inside his room? Besides the King, the steward, and the King’s mage, Magus Pol, none had access to the hallway of his quarters. The masters he’d trained under had never set foot beyond the chambers they were assigned. From what he knew, no one else could operate the mageLock to his room.

  The curiosity morphed into an unsettling feeling that whispered in his mind as he crossed the castle. The Overlook, where he was to meet the King, was on the fifth floor of the massive palatial complex. Looming over Windwake, it looked south over the sprawling city. Risens had little appreciation for the beauty, so he rarely found himself there of his own accord. However, in his youth, much of his training took place there, upon the balcony that gave the opulent chamber its name. Studying the living city through the lenses of his eyes was far more informative than maps alone. Thus, having learned the layouts of each and every one of Windwake’s districts aided him as he hunted.

  To the east of the city, the rumpled hills featured a gridwork of farm plots as the arable, fertile soil was leveraged for the sustenance of the volume of humanity that surrounded it. There were small outcroppings of settlements scattered throughout the farmlands. However, none were of importance to the crown beyond the food they provided. Now, with the drought entering its sixth month, the grumblings of discontent were plentiful, yet none of those who muttered curses from their barns had the means of harming the realm.

  Climbing the final hemp ladder, Risens found himself on that very balcony.

  The hidden door to the Overlook was unlike any of the other false panels that dotted the secret halls. Where the others appeared to be nothing more than peculiar dead ends, the wall here was painted floor-to-ceiling in a depiction of King Lathrenon striking a regal pose. He felt as if the eyes of the man were watching him, though he knew that, despite popular belief amongst the assassins, it wasn’t through the eyes themselves that the King could spy on those within, but through a discrete location, hidden among the innocuous books that filled one section of the painting’s background. And the peephole worked both ways.

  At a quick glance, he could see that the room was unoccupied beyond the King who stood at the balcony.

  Operating the hidden switch on the wall, he pushed gently on the side of the painting. Perfectly balanced and working on a central pivot point, the panel rotated silently as he slipped into the chamber beyond. With the matching design on either side, none would suspect the passage was concealed behind.

  The sky was bright as the last golden rays of sun illuminated the angled silhouettes of the buildings—a brilliant display of vibrant colors as night transitioned to the deep violet and shadow of the night that he called home. The view—even if Risens cared little for such pleasantries—was expansive. The southern border of the capital city shimmered with scintillating lights as the sun reflected off Sea Solace, the vast waters that formed its coast. He knew from experience that the waters were anything but calm as the sea’s name might suggest, producing swells that often claimed lives. Bordered by the Learners Row, Springs Square, and the Estates, Quayside represented the bustling port along its banks. It was a center for trade with the other cities that were spread along its expansive coastline. Though he’d never traversed the waters, he knew it was hundreds of miles long and at places, far wider as the tributaries spread like roots into the surrounding lands.

  Beside the docks, a long strip of beach curved for miles and wrapped to the east. Closest to the port, it was rocky and heavily scented by the odor of fish. In the warmer months, it was frequently crowded with people as they enjoyed the moments between the days’ labors. Further west, the air freshened as the rocky coast turned to fine sand. Protected by a low wall of white stone and the violent inclinations of private guards, the northern portion of Quayside stood apart from the hum of civilization around it. Vast mansions with their terraced gardens lined the water. Unlike the expansive farmlands, here was the power and means that gave him pause. Discontent would blow in like the rumble of distant thunder—a sound Windwake would pay good coin to hear. It would swell and it would pass. When it collided with money, power, and ambition, that was when the storm intensified. The lightning that followed would always cost lives.

  To the west, a large plot of land, just beyond the city gates, was dedicated to the Realm’s Heart, the daunting military complex and home to the King’s army. They could not be heard from such a distance, but Risens knew the thunder of horses’ hooves shook the ground as the cavalry perfected the timing of their charges. Shouted orders would filter through the air while the troops, tens of thousands strong, marched as one in training. The regimented, orderly lines of the buildings mirrored the details of the carefully arranged troops. In Windwake’s western quarter, the ringing of steel against steel seemed ever-present during the daylight hours.

  There was little civilization beyond the Realm’s Heart to the west. Rolling hills stretched into the distance, bisected by the mighty Stygian River before ending in the rocky foothills of the Cimmerian Peaks. Fed by the melting snow from the peaks and natural springs, the Stygian was a short, yet violent and dangerous waterway. Known for frequently overflowing its rocky banks, it made much of the terrain virtually unusable and was generally given an extensive berth. The mountains that highlighted the skyline beyond started far to the south, bordering much of the coastline, following a northerly path. Where the water ended, the Cimmerians continued for hundreds of miles on the same tract until the range ended in a collision with the Shial’s Sliver range—the mountains separating the realms of Halthome and Shial to the north.

  Traveling east and west, the jagged peaks of these mountains were permanently topped with snow, the melt fueling the raging river that fed the Sea to the south. It was rumored that the intersection of the two mighty ranges was the spot where Adalhard was cornered by his ancient enemy. With the assistance of the raven, Adalhard defeated his foes, forming the nation that now stands as Halthome—translating in the old language to “Our Final Refuge”. A seldom-visited statue and plaza mark the alleged locale. However, there was no way to know if it accurately depicted the battlefield. If it even existed.

  Risens’s mind focused. The summons had come early, causing him to ponder the reasoning. Thankfully, his meetings with the King were often brief as His Excellence wasn’t one for idle banter. Before stepping fully into the Overlook, he concentrated on the symbol that flashed into view.

  Fifty-one.