“Get up.”

  The toe of the boot that prodded his side was anything but gentle.

  Risens scrambled to his feet, struggling to hold back the moisture welling in his eyes. His hand desperately wanted to rub at the pain swelling from the welt on his arm. He resisted, and it took all he had. He knew that showing weakness in the face of his teacher would only amount to a swifter beating the next time around.

  He caught the dulled blade tossed at him from mid-air with relative ease, then fell into a defensive stance in the center of the dirt salle. He would be better prepared this time; he would recognize the feint for what it was and block the strike that had previously felled him.

  The reverberations of Vagon’s first few blows sent waves of pain up Risens’s scrawny arms. When he saw what he thought was an opening, he lashed out, but Vagon growled, “Come on,” swatting away his clumsy strike with a look of annoyance. “Do better than that.”

  Risens was familiar with the progression of the steps that followed. The dagger came in high, whistling over his head and forcing him into a crouch. This time, he would be prepared. Instead of rolling away, he lunged forward. He would press the attack before his tutor reversed his strike, sending him to the ground again. It would be Vagon who would feel the sting of a blade.

  A blinding cloud of dirt and dust greeted him as Risens charged in to earn the point he so desperately wanted. His back erupted in lancing agony as the flat of his training partner—or more aptly, torturer’s—blade slapped down. Again, he found himself face-first on the hard-packed dirt floor of the training circle.

  “This is no gentlemen’s competition,” Vagon sneered. “Get the foolish ideas of honor and dignity out of your head. No code binds you to a fair fight—no judge to disqualify you for cheating. You’re an assassin, not a squire. There is no expectation to fight fair.”

  Risens wanted to curl up, to wallow in the pain that seemed to coat every fiber of his back and arm. He choked down the sobs that threatened to consume him, knowing they, too, would only earn him a harsher punishment.

  “Get up. Again.”

  ***

  It was a curious memory that plagued him as he stalked around the edge of the last salle. How many days had he stumbled around the training circle, beaten mercilessly by his trainer? The man was nearly three times his age, a master in blade,unarmed combat, and deception. Cruelty, it seemed, was something he relished in. Vagon taught with an unapologetic style, emphasizing errors with physical punishment. As long as his students weren’t dead, the healers could mend any fractured bones and sew together any laceration on their skin.

  The thought assaulted him, one that hadn’t troubled his mind in many moons, though recently, it had been an ever-present question: Why was he chosen for this life?

  Why him?

  Just like in his youth, he expected he’d find no answer. At least not one suitable enough to bring peace to his heart. After years of pleading, the painful responses had beaten the curiosity into submission under a throbbing layer of acceptance. This was his station. He would accept it, as it was all he knew.

  Keeping his head low, he stalks in the shadows of the bushes toward the rear of the academy. Crossing silently over the finely set stones, he stopped behind the base of one of the many statues that dotted the rear of Excelsior. This one depicted a long-forgotten noble, his haughty, arrogant look leering over the grounds behind the estate. His paunchy figure with his upturned nose and loose-hanging jowls was more comical than it was inspiring—a twisted form of perfection that the young nobles would aspire to achieve.

  Risens scanned the exterior facade of Excelsior with calculating eyes. The fluted columns, decorated with impressively lifelike vines carved in stone that wound their way up their heights, towered three stories high. Large windows filled the spaces between pillars. He traced his path up the side of the building, using the easy handholds provided by the decorative rock. He would be able to remain in the shadows for most of the climb, though he would be visible for brief moments by those inside the building.

  The lights inside burned low on all floors, save the upper level, which remained dark. The interior of the academy—if it could truly be called that—was not a mystery to Risens or the Kingdom at large. Guards, both serving Halthome and their private masters who were posted there, were frequently cycled through locations throughout their careers. Plying information about the building was a matter accomplished without difficulty.

  The first floor of the expansive building was dedicated to learning in all forms. A grand ballroom covered an eighth of the massive footprint. Here, young lords and ladies, dressed in finery lavish and expensive enough to provide food for the impoverished citizens their families had lorded over for generations, learned to strut and posture as they flowed across the polished mahogany floor. The long formal dining room that adjoined the space allowed them ample time to refine the more intricate details of politicking during meals. They would plot to stab their peers in the back one day, all while smiling through crystal goblets of aged wine and false smiles.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The remainder of the first floor was a maze of ornate hallways and classrooms, dedicated to everything from business to trade to the management of their estates and holdings. His mind wandered through the curriculum, expecting that at some point teaching would revolve around dealing with mistresses, bastard children, and getting caught while tangled up in illicit romantic rendezvous. Priceless paintings, sculptures, tapestries, and relics of Halthome’s storied past were displayed with pride on pedestals and along the walls that lined the winding corridors.

  The second floor was reserved for the students who called Excelsior their temporary home. Separated into wings, the young lords and the ladies lived with peers of their same gender, while sharing a grand common area and library between them. Considerable thought was likely given to the accommodations, as many of the houses were on less-than-friendly terms.

  Viewing Excelsior from the front, each floor shrank in size and grandeur from the ground up. With its many terraced gardens and patios, the space was used for relaxation beyond the required learning below.

  The third floor served as a home for the professors, tutors, and headmaster who were responsible for turning out the cultured, well-mannered nobility that would one day strut through the aptly named Nobles Gate. It was a seemingly impossible task, as the preconceived notions and spoiled upbringing would offer nothing fit to convert a sinner to a saint. How many would he one day hunt as traitors? He could have likely killed dozens before finding one who didn’t fit the bill.

  Beyond the two who had been caught in their forbidden romantic interlude, tonight, it seemed, was their lucky night. He wasn’t calling to seek retribution or justice. They would all be spared from his blades unless they interfered with his plans.

  The darkened upper floor was the smallest of them all and was the destination he now sought. His climb would becometrickier when the pillars ended. Where the columns ended, a broad strip of sculpted stone wrapped about the rear of the building. Depicting a martial scene of some type, he saw soldiers on horseback with long lances mid-charge, knights weighed down by armor and shield. He stifled the grin that tugged at his lips. Just above the peak of the column closest to him, the distinct shape of a raven was carved into the stone.

  Convenient.

  All the antiquities of Halthome on full display in the lower floors were commonplace compared to the treasures rumored to be kept above. Risens pondered not for the first time the reason for his current quest. Why had Mother Raven sent him to collect the item? Why would an item of such importance be held here, hidden in the halls of excess? What was so important that she would require his assistance?

  He knew that it was a jeweled egg, fragile and delicate, though nothing else. The cryptic information left nothing but more questions. The significance behind the piece was shrouded in mystery. Mother Raven had hinted at the conspiracy of ravens’ assistance at his call, yet he failed to see how they would help him complete this quest.

  Illuminated by the light that filtered through the great windows along Excelsior’s rear, he watched the lazy patrol of the guards on the individual floors. Under the control of the commanding officer and his subordinates, the offending pair was separated before being deposited at the entrances to their particular wings.

  Confirming that no guard within could see his movements, he swarmed up the pillar.

  The guards of Excelsior were likely all skilled and relatively proficient in sword abilities. Their attention, however, was sorely lacking. They focused entirely on the city beyond their lush confines, while leaving the interior woefully unattended.

  Since the unexpected encounter that forced him into the water, all of his preparation and stealth seemed for naught. Perhaps he should have just calmly strolled across the grass instead of skulking in the shadows. The lovers had been unlucky. If not for the ill-timed kick of a foot in the throes of passion, their tryst would have likely gone unnoticed. Afterall, they had snuck out of the building without raising an alarm, and he doubted that their educations focused much onstealth.

  The pillar itself only deepened his impression of the grounds’ interior. Though the quality of the craftsmanship was supreme, it had been constructed as if it were made for climbing. How many adventurous nobles had tempted fate by scaling these stones? On second thought, he doubted that anyone who attended the academy would have noticed anything beyond beauty crafted for their benefit. They could just as easily order someone to climb it if they desired something at the top. That’s what their servants were for.

  He stopped as he neared the base of the third level. Unlike the floors below, where a wide hallway stretched along the windows, to the left of the pillar he climbed, there was a wide, comfortable sitting area for the teachers and administration to relax after likely countless toilsome days. The windows here swung outward on their frames, allowing the cool night air to reach the building.

  The lights were low, offering few hints of whatever inhabitants might be inside. Risens peeked his head over the ledge, his vision darting across the luxurious comforts of the room. If not for the quiet conversation floating through the window and the low glow of embers burning at the end of long pipes, he would not have noticed anyone within.

  Shifting to the outer edge of the pillar, he continued his ascent, those inside oblivious to his presence until their words brought him to a stop again.

  “Howar, I promise you the ledge is clean. I’ve combed through it three times, as has Ouropau. All references to the Lady and Duke’s… contributions have been expunged.” The speaker took a drag on his pipe, and Risens caught the distinct aroma of jahgi as the thin tendril of smoke escaped from the window. Mildly hallucinogenic, it was widely used and highly illegal, though such laws were not regularly enforced at this level of privilege.

  “You know as well as I that we can ill afford the ire of the King,” Howar responded, taking a deep drag himself. The glowing embers flared, lighting his gaunt, old face in a low orange glow. “We just need to weather the storm that is coming. I do not doubt that there will be others. Let it not be us, old friend.”

  The conversation included a dangerous sentiment—one that was likely spreading far faster than could be culled. The more lives lost and their public executions would only escalate the infection. It was a sentiment that a week ago would have ended both of their treasonous lives.

  With a frown, however, he climbed silently higher.

  He had helped Lathrenon foment the rebellion that brewed under his very seat.

  Risens only wished he had seen the truth sooner.