The small courtyard was, again, empty and still. There were no hints of the sudden unkindness of ravens that had harried him. The only sign that someone had disturbed the forbidden court was the stain of crimson he’d left on the ancient tile.
Gingerly, he brought his hand up to his head, dabbing carefully at the tender spot just under his hairline. His fingers came back wet with the slow trickle of blood, though the gash was far from fatal. He knew from experience that lacerations to the forehead bled especially forcefully, though they were largely superficial.
To one whose duty involved tasks such as his, scars were an unfortunate reality, nothing more. His head ached ferociously, throbbing in his ears like the boots of a thousand marching soldiers. His mind ran rampant as it chronicled the disturbing details of the recent past. Upon second inspection of his surroundings, he decided there was no confusion that the birds had been real. He felt the scratches of their talons still. The evidence of their passing was tangible, down to the dark molted feathers that peppered the marble around him.
But it was that voice he couldn’t quite shake. Had that truly happened? The deep rumbling, so tangible it could have been an earthquake? Even now, it hammered inside his skull, potent and forceful.
It is my will that the Brand of the Veil is now yours to command.
The Brand of the Veil? He had never heard of such a Brand, and Risens knew them all.
By whose will was he granted the Brand?
The voice had demanded acquiescence borne of sheer power, yet he struggled to believe it wasn’t mere delusion. Despite his lack of knowledge, the mark it spoke of was real; he could feel it even now—the lingering sting and heat on his chest. Still, he wondered, had the jarring leap from the Duke’s rooftop done more damage than he’d felt initially? Perhaps the repercussions of the impact had caused his collapse.
The idea was as far-reaching as the reality he questioned.
Did his morality finally return to charge a penance for his lifetime of sins? Had he lost his mind?
With questions rampaging through his brain, he let his hand slip from his forehead, running down the side of his face with the intention of investigating the Brand in the center of his chest. No sooner did it reach his cheek than it came to an abrupt stop.
Here, the natural texture of his skin reached a thin edge that felt like polished steel. With panicked motions, he grasped his face with all fingers, tracing the lines of the disturbing find. Crawling desperately across the stone tiles, he dragged his body to the edge of the thin trench, staring into the placid, fetid water within.
In the pale light of the moon, the image that reflected off the still surface was unsettling. Though he felt nothing of its presence against his skin, the lower half of his face was covered with an elaborately embossed silver mask, ornate with runes and markings. From the bridge of his nose, it sloped down into a protruding beak accentuated by a sharp point nearly a hand’s width from his face.
With the vision confirmed, panic took its truest hold. He scratched at the steel, attempting to remove the foreign object from his face. His motions were frozen in place by the voice that thundered in his mind once more.
Fool. Once Branded, it shall never be removed. It is the true form that the Shadows Shroud will disguise.
His blood chilled as the ringing in his ears continued. His gaze darted to the shadowed corners of the Raven’s Court, though he was still alone in the square, save for the shrine before him. He could feel the judgmental eyes of the raven-man boring into him.
With trembling hands, he probed the beak of the mask bonded to his face—the Shadows Shroud, if the voice was to be trusted. It was as if his fingers traced the shape of the statue above.
Though the pain had ebbed, the fabric of his tunic scratched against the newly minted Brand on his chest. The scars, slightly raised from his skin, looked red and irritated. He worried that, like Duke Karieas’, they’d start to weep before long. He bit his lip, forcing control over his hand and mind whose desire was to do nothing more than satisfy the annoying itch.
He rose slowly.
“What does it mean?” he asked the air, hoping perhaps the shrine itself might give a response. Yet none came. His voice was met with only silence.
His heart raced while sweat poured off him in buckets. Risens’ mind was clouded with questions and concerns, though he did not believe he would find them here.
Leaving the Raven’s Court, he had plotted the most direct route back to his hidden keep within the castle. His presence, his report to the King, would be overdue before long. He would be afforded no time to change before meeting with His Excellency.
Thankfully, there was enough blood splattered over his person to disguise any that might leak from the freshly applied Brand. Until he knew it, understood it, he would reveal it to no one—not even the King himself. The mask posed another problem altogether.
He leafed through the pages of the Raven’s Guide in his mind, his mental search returning empty-handed each time. The Brand, which took the form of what appeared to be a raven’s beak, was unrecognizable from any that he remembered. The attribute, the mask it granted, was unheard of in his studies. Most brands produced effects that were trivial at best. The Brand of the Courtesan allowed the bearers the ability to charm their marks, though he wondered if their looks and attitude alone were enough allure for most. The Brand of the Tiller—often granted to the farmers—served as a clock of sorts, counting down to the optimal time to sow and harvest their crops. Dozens more were granted nothing but the marking on the skin. A status symbol for those who desired recognition.
The mask, as was the design that produced it, was unheard of. A physical, tangible object that now adorned his face? How would he go on?
His entire life had revolved around duty. Unquestioning service to King Lathrenon and the crown. Darting through the shadows of the city, his thoughts were now consumed by a different focus.
It terrified him.
He had skirted his duty, stopping at a forbidden shrine. He had been branded for defying the King.
At the moment, his sole desire was a rapid dismissal after offering his report. He was confident the palatial library contained the book he required. He would pore through the pages of the Raven’s Guide, and if not there, then every other tome within the walls until he had an answer.
At several points during his silent return through the city, his wraithlike form crossed the face of the darkened windows of shops and residences. Vanity was never a concern of his, yet now, he found his eyes perpetually tracking his reflection on the glass. The silver mask was a glaring change to his blackened silhouette.
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He paused for a moment as he studied the likeness in the moonlit glass. The left side of his face was stained a flaky, dried crimson, though, thankfully, the trickle had stilled as the blood coagulated. His hand probed carefully at the mask while his mind fearfully questioned the circumstance. The Brand and the mask were linked. Coincidence would have demanded that understanding even before the voice confirmed the truth. He knew nothing of the Shadows Shroud nor of the voice’s cryptic words of true form. As for disguise, he was an assassin, and with all modesty, a master of his craft. Stealth, to him, was second nature, yet his mind struggled to comprehend how he could hide the mask from the King. All the bended knees, the vision trained on the ground in respect and reverence, the genuflection. None would disguise the silver mask for long. He balled his fists in frustration, cursing his dilemma.
It was a disaster of his own making.
Gnashing his teeth together, he cursed softly. For one who thrived on control yet lived in uncertainty, flexibility was crucial. There was the age-old proverb: Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not break. He had lived by those words. However, the unknowable at present was aggravating to say the least, as there was no clear path forward. Staring at the reflection of the beaked mask, he wanted nothing more than for it to disappear.
As if hammered by an unseen blow to the chest, he stumbled back a step, the rhythmic beating of his heart thundering in his ears. His vision blurred, and when his sight returned, the ornate silver mask that had covered his face vanished before his eyes. Hope surged through his body as he rubbed his hands across his cheeks and chin, feeling the coarse grit of the stubble on his skin. He watched the smile as it tugged up on the corners of his lips now that his face was revealed in full.
Though his skin again showed through, he noted the discrepancy in his vision. The momentary blurring of his sight as he watched the mask vanish was resolved in an instant, yet a noticeable blemish remained in the uppermost corner of his right eye. Like the lingering spots that present after staring into the sun, it shifted with every motion of his vision. Blinking did nothing to rid him of its presence, though he hoped that it would, in time, fade.
With renewed vigor, he pulled himself from his inspection in the glass. The castle was close now. He could ill afford any further delays. At a measured jog, he set off on his winding path through the darkened alleys of the city. The rush of cool air against his face was a relief, though the disappearance of the mask imparted a peculiar sensation. Visually, its presence was startling, yet he hadn’t noted any pressure on his face, almost as if it were a natural part of him. Curiously enough, in its absence, he couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling of longing.
Much to his dismay, the slight disturbance in the corner of his eye not only remained, but seemed to shift, varying slightly in size and orientation with every passing second. It would be a slight annoyance if it remained, though its effects on his lethal abilities would be immaterial.
Risens’ determined pace shifted as he reached the sprawling clearing that spread before the castle gates. The Grand Exposition was a massive multi-purpose space, utilized for all manner of events, tournaments, and markets.
Bisecting the grounds, a broad, paved avenue exited the massive gates leading into the city beyond. Bordering the western edge of the grand avenue, a vast square of neatly arranged pavers served as the home to the King’s permanent market. Though few would gain the privilege of the vantage point, the multicolored tiles had been laid to form the likeness of a multi-hued raven, its colorful wings flayed out to either side. Hemmed in by a low, opulently carved stone wall, surrounded by meticulously maintained topiaries, vendors from all across Halthome gathered to hawk their wares. The skilled gardeners displayed their creativity in living plants, though unsurprisingly, the most prevalent subject was the raven. The prices here at the King’s market were, by any standards, exorbitant—as was the entrance fee. Only the highest-quality goods were displayed in neatly arranged stalls among the perfectly laid stone of the market square. The crown naturally took a sizeable cut of the proceeds, though proximity, not profit, drove many vendors to attend.
It was rumored that several over the years had merely purchased goods on the way, paying the entrance fee simply to curry favor with those who might have access to the King’s ear.
On either side of the market, the green spaces of the Exposition spread out over many acres, matching the width of the castle that dominated the skyline. The market was off-center with only a small sliver of garden to the west, while the expansive section to the east commanded much of the attention. Here, blooms of all colors were arranged in orderly, symmetrical designs in gardens along a grand avenue, lined with gold. A wide section of perfectly trimmed grass surrounded a long rectangular pool, while beyond that, the tournament grounds and grandstands were the home to martial competitions and tournaments of all scopes.
Risens had heard the raucous cheers of the crowds, yet he’d only seen scattered bits of the tournaments, markets, or festivals over the years. Neither entertainment nor sport was fit for his station. He’d roamed every meter of the Grand Exposition grounds, yet his companions had always been darkness and shadow. His was not a place among the crowds.
Even less so now.
Beyond the jovial nature of the tournament grounds, there was a far darker side. Though they’d waned in recent years, high-profile public executions had drenched the soil here with regularity. There was logic in King Lathrenon’s actions to protect his throne and the realm. He was charismatic, his smile and charm gracing many galas. His dancing prowess was the subject of much discussion amongst the ladies of the court. But behind the smile was a brutal penchant for violence.
King Lathrenon had made devastating and public examples of those who betrayed him or the kingdom. Those who faced death or torture now were typically the wretches of the city. Those who conspired against the realm understood the message clearly. Mysterious deaths now abound within their class.
The King no longer needed to make a show of their deaths. They would die alone or with their entourage. Nowhere was safe for those who worked against the will of the kingdom. As His Majesty had said before releasing Risens upon Duke Karieas, “It makes no difference if they watch the execution. They’ll all hear word of it soon enough, and it will be a warning to each and every one of them.”
Risens was his dagger, his Rightmaker, and while the executioners’ work had waned, his had grown exponentially. The extreme nature of tonight’s task would only emphasize the message that the King was not one to be trifled with.
Skirting the edge of the market, he headed west toward the small garden beyond. The thin ring of squared-off bushes hid a line of benches. Standing firmly, their ornately carved feet were planted firmly on the carpet of grass, though no one currently occupied their seats. The gardens here were only a thin strip, a barrier for the lumbering wall of greenery that towered over his head.
The Halthome hedge maze was once an attraction widely used by both commoners and nobles alike. Having been constructed not long before his birth, it was rumored that the enormous price was funded by the estates of those who voiced the fiercest opposition to its cost. Both entrance and exit to the expansive hedge maze stood side by side, spaced only a few dozen meters apart, facing the market.
It wasn’t long before the novelty of the attraction faded. The labyrinth of greenery was ill-used, though completed with remarkable ease. The most significant traffic nowadays came from love-sick young couples searching for a hidden tryst safe from prying eyes. If only they knew how many eyes often watched them through the foliage.
Sticking to the shadows, Risens vaulted the low row of shrubbery, moving silently over the grass toward the entrance to the maze. It wasn’t mere coincidence or oversight that no lampposts were erected near the edge of the hedges. In total darkness, he melted into the labyrinth of leaves.
He moved at a steady clip as he strode purposefully through the maze. He could navigate these paths with his eyes closed. Ingrained into his memory was the count of every step, the precise direction of every turn. The general public had access to a range of the area, though not nearly its entirety. Had they access to the final stage, it was likely that none would survive to tell the story.
A few dozen turns in, he reached a dead end in the hedges. Countless numbers had reached this point over the years, backtracking without ever knowing the secret they had stumbled upon. His progress ground to a halt as the distraction of the light in his eyes swelled, shifting and brightening at a rate that seemed frantic. He froze in place, squinting as he struggled to focus on the disorienting occurrence.
His breath caught in his throat. The blurred amorphous object resolved into a definitive shape before blinking out of existence with a blinding flash that forced him to clench his eyes.
When he opened them again, his vision had returned to its unblemished norm. The image, so alarmingly unfamiliar, was seared into his mind. There was no confusing its angular features. It was undoubtedly a rune of some design, yet the configuration was entirely foreign to him.
The lingering sensation of longing that had whispered from the recesses of his mind faded like dust in the wind. He knew, even without the physical confirmation: the mask had returned. Thus, he was unsurprised as his hands again brushed against the textured lines of metal. Risens carefully fingered the sharp beak that now sat firmly affixed where his nose should have been.