Rising to his feet now, he felt as complete as he had ever remembered. His belly felt full, and he was hydrated. His mind and body functioned as if they had never lacked for substance or rest. The departure from his prior state was startling. The complete absence of discomfort and pain almost felt alarming, as if for as long as he could recall, he’d never truly been complete.
The discrepancy between his overall feelings and the state of his gear couldn’t be more drastic. While every fiber of being felt healed, his clothing had been damaged beyond repair. Whether slashed, torn, or soiled with a sticky coating of drying blood, every shred of his cloak, pants, and shirt was affected. He was thankful that fate had allowed him to retain the Raven Talons, his blades, as well as the guide tucked safely away in his pocket.
As his thoughts shifted from the surprise at his current state, the voice that still echoed in his mind toyed with him. A yet-to-be-named skill had saved his life, as had the others before it. That he could call on the assistance of ravens was a boon he knew would prove vital in the challenges to come, whatever they may be. If he could find his way out of this crevice and return to his chamber in the castle, what would befall him then? He had spent his life in devotion to the King and realm, yet somehow he doubted that protecting the ruler of Halthome would be the pinnacle of his tasks.
The false king…
Risens was certain that Lathrenon had ordered his death, yet he still intended to give his report. He would play the part he was expected to. He would serve the kingdom to which he had sworn allegiance, though his loyalty to the man upon the throne had been severed. There would be plenty of time to contemplate his actions as the capital was still hundreds of miles away and the windStep they had traveled through was now closed.
Walking back along the paved pathway to collect his dagger, he traced the disturbances in the dust-covered floor. He played out the devastating battle in his mind. The colossal creature had never given him a chance, overwhelming him from the start. He collected his blade from where it lay on the stones, frowning at its pitted edges. Either the fall to the tile dented the razor’s edge or perhaps he’d struck a stone that was caught up in the mixture of ice, rock, tree, and death.
Instinctively, he reached for the Raven Talons that had refused to assist him during the trial. The moment his skin touched the familiar feather-wrapped handles, intrusive thoughts and insatiable bloodlust flooded his mind.
“Thank you for your assistance,” he sneered.
“It was never our battle to fight. You survived. Perhaps you’re not as pathetic as we thought.”
They were impressive and lethal, yet at times, they could be irritating beyond measure. On a whim, he pulled them free, surprised when they obliged. He noted a peculiarity. No symbols flashed in the corner of his vision. Had the counters reset, or were they not bound to the rules here, like the Shadows Shroud in the Roost?
It was a theory he planned on testing as soon as possible.
Now, with his body rejuvenated and refreshed, his attention turned to freeing himself from the confines of the cavern that hemmed him in. He scanned the walls as he walked back along the paved track toward the narrowing section of the area, finding nothing but sheer faces of stone to greet him. Reaching the edge of the circle around the charred mark in the floor,his mind shifted to the voice’s words.
“Among the lucky one.”
The wording was awkward. There had never been so much as a hitch or stutter when the voice had boomed in his ears. Every consonant and vowel was perfectly articulated, every syllable clean and concise. This was not an error, but an intentional statement.
Risens’ breath caught in his throat as the prospects threatened to rob him of his newly restored strength. One had passed the trial that he’d just faced. How many more had failed?
He was standing on hallowed ground. The voice had said as much.
Then it hit him. This was where Adalhard, the first king of Halthome, had saved the realm.
The figure of the great king was so entrenched in the history of Halthome that it was impossible to decipher fact from fiction. The plaza and glorious statue of the man was built—as legend held—at the intersection of the Cimmerian and Shial Sliver ranges. That was a false idol celebrating an incorrect location. Though now, the partial truth of the event was confirmed.
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Adalhard was rumored to have three Brands, yet beyond the Brand of the Bloodheir, the mark that made him king, little was known.
The Brand Risens received here had granted him the power to bring the birds to his aid. What other skills had he acquired?
The line of thought occupied his mind as he scoured the wall for a means of exit. The collapsed wall at the far end of the cavern had the feel of a deliberate cover. At some point in the distant past, this area had been hidden from the prying eyes of those who would seek the site. As the voice had hinted, they would seek it for their own gain.
Again, Risens thought of his own motivations, his quest for skills and power. The Roost was his to access at will, containing a seemingly endless supply of skills, each of which could be evolved through his lived experiences. Beyond the power as a means to survive, to be stronger, faster, and more skilled than the ones trying to end his life, there was no greater motivation. He was honor-bound to protect the Kingdom of Halthome.
His vision tracked down to the circular clearing on the floor. It was his blood, too, that now stained the original mark of charring on the stone. He crouched, rubbing his palm over the warmed stone, finding it dry to the touch as if the new staining had always been a part of it. Whatever the purpose, he was tied to this legacy, this path, wherever it would lead him.
Saving the Kingdom alone seemed like a trivial use of powers and skills that lurked behind the sealed doors of the Roost.What more was required of him?
The darkness that still shrouded the end of the ravine where the mighty mountains met drew him toward it. Leaving the circle, he moved steadily forward, though the shadows remained, covering the flat wall that he knew lay behind.
A few paces more, and the truth came to light.
On the thin sliver of flat wall where the ranges collided, a tall, narrow portal had formed on the stone. Risens had no way to know where it would lead, though his assumptions guided him. Regardless of the destination, his purpose was set.
The blackness of the windStep closed around him.
Darkness and light entangled in a whirlwind of motion that sent him soaring through a vast wasteland. Wind whipped at his face and hair, though none of it caused any harm. It all ended with a stomach-churning halt where color coalesced with the darkness, and his destination came into view.
Risens grinned as he stepped out into the vaulted hall that had become so familiar to him. Before this point, his entrance to the Roost had always come from the incredible speed, deadly cold, and pressure of the portal at the room’s head. Now,he emerged from one of the sealed doors on the first floor at the far right end of the hall, closest to the shrine and Raven’s Guide. The stone ravens judged him, following his steps as he moved to the pedestal at the shrine’s base.
The process that had once been extraordinary when the new page of the sealed tome turned to the next was now familiar, though the anticipation was overpowering. He’d not viewed the new markings that graced his chest, yet he knew that they’d match the image seared into the page perfectly—a simple set of diagonal lines. Much like the canyon he had been trapped in, they were wider at the top than at the bottom, where they came to a point.
It was relatively easy to view the Brands on his chest through the shreds of his tunic. The new addition was clear; the skin was still red and angry from its recent application, and heat still radiated from the mark.
Brands varied widely in complexity, though the detail of the marking meant nothing to the overall powers they imbued. He scanned through the pages of the Raven’s Guide in his mind, viewing image after image of complex designs. The Brand of the Whipping Boy was an intricate crest featuring the profile of a man, his stature imposing and regal, towering over a hunched form beside him. The entire design was encircled by a finely detailed whip, coiled like a snake. There was no purpose to the design save for the marking given to the unfortunate peasants that accompanied various nobles.
The relatively formless designs of the forbidden Brands here in the Roost had been curious in their minimalistic details. Now with several scars on his chest, the purpose and intent became clear. Each carried powers that far surpassed any that filled the pages of the Raven’s Guide, yet they were never intended to be viewed alone. They were all part of a design that he hoped would one day cover the skin of his torso and abdomen. The momentary pain of the application was excruciating, but the power held within the pattern was limitless.
He found the one now scrawled into the final page of the hefty tome.
Brand of the Winged Salvation
One of the twelve key Brands. To the bearer belongs the Conspiracy of Ravens. The bonded pair will always be at your beckoned service. Trust and experience will increase the flock. Further evolutions will improve their strength and abilities.
Risens contemplated the uses of the new skill. His power and capabilities continued to increase with every journey to the Roost. He studied the passage again as the description was burned into the miniature version of the Raven’s Guide he carried in his pocket.
The company he would find himself in now was something he could trust, unlike the scheming assassins that had followed him through the mountains.
Expecting that there would be a cost, at least in the form of limited-time use, as were his other skills, he resolved to test the application as soon as possible. Attempting the feat here within the confines of the Roost would be a pointless endeavor, as here, he was unbound by the strictures of Windwake and the world beyond the portals.
He paused as he reached to stow the book in his breast pocket. Instead, replacing the book on the lectern, he fished through the concealed folds in his cloak to retrieve the vial that contained the orders that were to seal his doom. With his access to the castle no doubt restricted, he would likely have limited places to store anything of value in the coming days. A quick search of the pack he had left on the ground at the foot of the statue confirmed that all of his supplies remained as he had left them.
Though it wasn’t a tangible skill, the Roost had provided a boon once more. He had somewhere to store his gear and valuables where none, not even the most skilled assassin, could find them.
Beyond that, he had found a home.