Grains of the hourglass fell, and frustration within Risens grew with the mound. Without the distraction of Fendri, his second attempt at sketching the final rune produced a far more detailed design.

  Risens had repositioned the small hand-mirror from his bathroom, propping it up against the wall on the desk where he worked. Every few minutes, the scratching of his quill against parchment paused as he shifted his focus to ridding the mask that covered the lower half of his face. Each successive failure produced the familiar discomforting feelings of trepidation, and disquiet harried his senses.

  Sketching the rune had taken the better part of twenty minutes to complete. Minute after minute, failure after failure, he struggled to force his command over the mask to no avail. The hourglass was roughly half empty when his thoughts produced the long-awaited, intended result. The first rune flashed into the corner of his vision as the ornate silver mask vanished from his face in a blink.

  Half an hour.

  Free of the mask, Risens wasted no time departing his meager chambers. Aside from his studies, he had never felt any need to spend much time locked away inside the meager confines of his personal quarters. It was scarcely furnished with little more than a bed, a wardrobe, table and chair, and a large wooden chest. The mage-enhanced window, though it was merely an imperfect, thin pane of glass viewing a backdrop of solid stone, spilled diffused light into his room. It did its best at mirroring the natural cycle of the world outside his underground wing, yet even at its brightest, it had the feel of sunlight streaming through heavily soiled, frosted glass. As such, the small end table beside his bed was heavily laden with the dried, waxy residue of candles burned to their end.

  His wardrobe contained the clothing of his station—black as the depth of the night. Several swords, along with a bow and quiver, were stashed away, leaning close at hand along its door. Risens was rarely—if ever—not armed, though spares were always kept close at hand. The spacious chest at the foot of his bed was virtually empty save for a few bags of coins in all denominations and several daggers of different designs, concealed in their assorted sheaths. Every piece of furniture, no matter how mundane, had at least a single blade worked stealthily and seamlessly into the design. With the mageLock intact, he had little to fear in his chambers, yet his trained preparation never went astray.

  Money bore no impact over his decisions. He was paid nothing for his services, yet owed nothing for his lodging, training, food, or other necessities. Were gold needed for a prescribed task, it would be provided with neither questions asked nor receipts required. Even if one were to somehow access his chamber uninvited, the theft of a few coins wouldn’t furrow his brow in the least.

  A narrow door exited off the side of his bedchamber and led to his private bath. An elliptical tub was set into the floor, fed at will by a single spigot protruding from the wall. The temperature of the water was easily controlled by a small metal disc to its side, though the lukewarm temperature was rarely changed.

  As expected, the way was empty as he exited his room to the corridor beyond. He paused at the last door along the left, the same side as his chambers. These doors were unmarked by any design, yet he knew where each opened. Unlocking the heavy steel panel with a touch, he stepped through. Eyes closed, the windStep carried him to his destination.

  A cool gust of air pelted his face, and the familiar feeling of a roiling belly ended in an unoccupied chamber. The narrow cot against the right wall was covered with a sheet, bleached to a stark white. Across the room, a cabinet was built into the top half of the wall, the shelf below covered with a small selection of white cloths and dozens of small metal tools.

  His eyes ran over the instruments, noting the razor-sharp blades on most. He suppressed a smile as he considered, from personal experiences, the sheer mayhem that could be caused with most. He moved across the small room, stepping carefully over the grate set into the stone floor. Far too much of his own blood—not to mention the hundreds the royal healers had attended to over the years—had trickled through the opening into the sewers below over the years.

  The opposite wall consisted of only a door and a thin chain descending from a small hole in the ceiling. He gave the metal cord a gentle pull before seating himself on the cot. He was unaware of the true placement of the healer’s clinic within the castle, as it was only accessible by windStep, nor did he know who those that treated him were. From the variations in their voices, he knew he’d been treated by several, though the white masks that covered all but their eyes worked admirably to disguise their identities. The door they entered from was sealed to all save their own sect, as much as his chambers were to others.

  He wasn’t made to wait for long.

  The healer who entered was dressed in a pure white, cloaked robe with a heavily laden white apron fastened around her waist. Even with so many layers, Risens could tell her waist was lithe. Red hair barely escaped her head covering, and the cloth mask tied about her face hid the lower half, leaving only a thin strip for bright green eyes to peer through. Their kind gaze swept over him as they silently appraised him.

  For a moment, Risens was reminded of the Shadows Shroud, and a twinge of fear crept into his heart. As a precaution, he focused on the flashing symbol in the corner. Once sure it was still present, he nodded toward the healer.

  “Is it only the head wound today?” The voice that filtered through the cloth was familiar, though it was slightly garbled. The secrecy of the healers was respected, yet the masks were augmented to disguise their voices. Risens nodded again in reply.

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  “Hm. Seems a relatively trivial injury. Why waste the effort?” There was no sense of judgment or scorn in her voice, merely fact as she moved close, gently probing the area around the wound. “Did you lose consciousness?”

  “No,” Risens lied for the sake of expediency. “As for the reason, it seems there are plans, as there always are.”

  “As it does.”

  The healer wasted no further time in conversation before getting to work treating the injury. Risens had puzzled over the need for the services and what the King’s upcoming plans were, yet he assumed limiting identifiable scars was critical. The healer fished around in the cabinet, returning with a small glass jar. The contents—a brownish yellow sludge—Risens knew too well. The astringent odor was tempered with something floral, somehow making it smell worse in the process. Risens winced as the doctor pinched the edges of the wound together with two fingers before rubbing a small measure of the gelatinous mixture from the jar over the laceration with the thumb of her other hand.

  He gritted his teeth in preparation for what he knew would follow, though he was still caught off guard by the intensity of the reaction. He’d sat through the process dozens—if not hundreds—of times throughout the years, yet his mind continued to be fractured by the ferocity of the treatment. Thankfully, the searing pain subsided quickly.

  The healer poked at the area a few times, whispering to herself, nodding in approval. “If there’s nothing else, then I’ll relieve you to your duties.”

  With emptiness of words and a slight bow, she turned without waiting for a response.

  She reached the cabinet through which she’d make her exit when Risens stopped her with a question. “Would it be possible to take some of that salve with me? I can see the benefits of its healing properties in the field.”

  Even with only her eyes exposed, the curious expression that crossed the healer’s face was telling. “In all the years I’ve treated the wounded, no one has ever bothered to inquire. I find that I see fewer and fewer familiar faces of late. Of course, you can take anything you desire from this room should your need arise. It is yours after all. I would be remiss, however, if I didn’t strongly caution you not to experiment with anything without consulting one of the healers first. You understand the potency of this blend. Only a small amount on the finger will seal most wounds far better and much quicker than stitches.” She extended the small jar to Risens. “If there’s nothing else?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you, as always.” Risens accepted the ointment, tucking the container safely into the folds of his cloak.

  “Ah, another sentiment I’ve not heard regularly,” the healer whispered. From the slight pinching of the skin around her eyes, he could tell the woman offered a smile in return. “May your road ahead be free from injury.”

  With another polite nod, she slipped from the room.

  Risens wasted no time hastening from the chamber into the tunnels beyond his private wing. The castle library was not far, yet it served both as a museum and repository for the combined history of the kingdom. There was always a heavy contingent of guards, but he was unconcerned as his path would take him nowhere near the heavily patrolled entrance.

  It wasn’t long before he reached another dead end in the passage. Unlike the section near the throne room, there were no paintings that graced these bare stone walls. Activating the secret catch, he shifted silently through the portal into the library beyond.

  Dust floated thickly in the air. Cautiously remaining in the shadows beside a sturdy wooden shelf, he trained his ear for the sounds of motion between the tall shelves. Hearing only the distant report of footsteps, he slipped from his concealment and stalked further into the depths of the library.

  The Raven’s Guide was one of the oldest, most cherished tomes in all of Halthome. While there were many widely distributed versions meant for public consumption, the original was far more expansive. Nearly one hundred pages had been omitted from the watered-down replications, making them ill-suited for his quest.

  The ancient publication was located at the far rear of the enormous hall, guarded under lock and key by a pair of ominous suits of armor. Having solved the cipher of the lock nearly a decade ago, the complex piece now took but a moment to remove.

  He stopped suddenly as he rounded the corner to view the case. The lock, already disengaged, hung casually by one arm from the bronze ring. Even from several meters away, he could see that the timeless manuscript was gone. The rectangular outline of dust that settled around it hinted at its recent removal.

  His hands fell to his dagger as a sudden, yet muffled sound filtered through the bookcases. The noise, though he couldn’t pinpoint the source, sounded almost like a single flap of a bird’s wings. He waited, but the library again fell into silence. Risens’ gaze darted to every shadow as he reversed slowly, wedging himself into a small gap between shelves with his back protectively against the wall.

  Nothing moved through the still of the library. Even the dust seemed to hang steady with anticipation.

  Frustrated, he knew there was no point in remaining here. His first, easy attempt at poring through the pages of the Raven’s Guide had been thwarted, though there were other options at his disposal. Noting the increasing brightness of the runes as they counted down in his vision, he knew that his time was short. Without delay, he made his retreat from the castle library. Once safe within the confines of the hidden tunnels, the reality of the mask would be less concerning.

  Few alive knew his face. None knew the mask. If he were spotted, no one would be able to tie him to the master he served. With cautious steps, he slipped back through the secret door to the passage beyond. Only once it shut behind him did the feeling of being watched wane.

  Risens retraced his steps, finding his way to his private wing without difficulty or delay. Stepping through the massive steel portal, he was deposited again in the tunnel near the hedge maze. He stopped as he reached the doorway marked by the design of an open book, the page in the middle, curled in mid-turn. The path to Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes.

  Located in the center of the city, Adalhard’s was far more public than the castle library, and while it contained a word-for-word copy of the Raven’s Guide, it would not be as simple a task to retrieve it.

  His mind wandered, pondering his tasks. He stood at the intersection of contending engagements. While King Lathreneon had set him on a quest of revenge against the courtesan whose life he had spared, the ominous voice had demanded his return. Yet for the first time in his career, it was his own personal quest for answers that superseded duty. A brightening countdown that progressed onward with every passing tick of his heart.

  The King’s mission had a timeline that very well could be extended for days. The great public library of Adalhard, the first king of the realm, was in the general direction of the Raven’s Court, so he would be making progress toward returning. The justifications in his mind sounded hollow and weak.

  Shaking off the momentary doubt, he placed his hand on the concealed latch before stepping into the windStep.