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Chapter 22: POWER OF POSSIBILITY
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 16:04:20 +0000 UTCRisens hastened through the underground catacombs beneath the city, avoiding the crowds of civilians that would be moving about on the streets above. Injured as he was, it had taken far more skill and time to move from Pale Pink’s to Tawny’s clinic—not to mention having a scared courtesan in tow. The dank, putrid air of the sewers would linger on his clothing—which at this point, were fit to be burned.
He removed the Shadows Shroud from his face as he neared the windSteps back to the castle’s tunnel entrance. In the years he’d traveled these pathways, he’d never encountered another, though the possibility remained. The deadly traps would have long cut down any without intimate familiarity of their placements. Thankfully, there were few hiding spots among the channel—unless, of course, someone lingered in the fetid water. That potential always existed, though he gave it little merit. There were far move viable, and less caustic locations to set up an ambush if one so chose.
He longed to be rid of the pervasive stench that had soaked into his very pores. The lure of committing the cipher to memory had yet to fade as he tracked the changing symbols in his vision. With his task of tying off the loose end that was the errant courtesan complete, more than a full day remained before he would again be summoned before the King.
He would meet Lathrenon’s eyes, lying to the very man who held his life in the balance. It was a perverse feeling of betrayal that filled his core. His loyalty had never before been tested—not to this degree—and while he still dutifully served the crown, and kingdom, it was the indomitable voice that commanded greater respect.
Without knowing his new master, he’d followed the words without question or pause. A sick, twisting feeling knotted his gut, as he feared, one day, its commands would counter those of the King’s.
Risens gripped his daggers as he reached the portal hidden in the stone tunnel wall. The rush of viscous liquid tumbling over the edge into the river below made it impossible to discern the sound of footsteps. The slick track he followed ended in a heavy, rusted, iron gate that blocked half of the spillway, preventing any from concealing themselves there.
He stopped a few paces from the edge and focused his attention on a section of wall a few meters from the grate. Even covered by moss and slick with grime, he located the latch with practiced ease. A click sounded and the lock disengaged as the stone facade swung inward.
The use of hidden doorways was always nerve-wracking. He knew he was not the only one privy to their locations. Moments of complacency, simple and trivial as they may seem, were routinely the death of the unprepared. Thankfully, nothing but the cold void of the portal greeted him.
Another two uneventful windSteps brought him back to the entryway to his private chamber. Once again, he had expected Fendri to be waiting, impatience locked into his familiar scowl. Thankfully, however, Risens made it into his chambers without disruption.
His sparsely furnished room offered few places for someone to hide, taking him scarce seconds to confirm that he was, in fact, alone. Nothing was out of place this time. All was precisely as he’d left it.
Barring the metal door, he followed Tawny’s instructions. Risens turned the dial on his wall above his bath to hot and steam filled the room as the sound of running water began to bring calm to his weary soul. Once the tub was half full, he added the tonic. Inhaling the potent aroma brought a stinging to his lungs, but he suffered the pain. He needed all the aid he could manage.
While the tub filled, he retrieved the parchment bearing the cipher, and tracked the symbol in his vision to the corresponding number on the page.
Forty five.
He dragged a chair beside the tub, taking care to ensure the parchment he placed upon it was free from the splash zone, then entered the bath. The heat melted much of the lingering pain from his body. The water tinted pink from dried, crusted blood that seemed to coat the entirety of him. For a few blissful moments, he forgot the pressing cares of his deadly existence as he soaked in the fragrant bath. What discomfort remained was washed away by the gentle bliss of the warmth.
He tested his left arm, rolling his shoulder and manipulating his elbow. He winced. He knew his mobility, strength, and speed would be diminished for a few days before fully recovering. Tawny, as she had in the past, excelled at her craft. That simple motion hours ago would have left him doubled over.
However, as remarkable and inexplicable a process as the healer controlled, it paled in comparison to the healing he’d received by the unseen powers of the voice that demanded his obedience.
Turning his mind from that which he couldn’t hope to understand, he focused on the signs that flashed in his vision. Knowing he had a lengthy soak in store, he reached for his copy of the cipher to study. With the parchment held carefully above the water, he followed along as the runes changed and the numbers descended.
The question of where the paper had come from troubled him for several reasons. It was a convoluted thought that one who existed to invade the privacy of others—often with lethal consequences—would be bothered by the unexpected trespass. More troubling was how someone had bypassed the mageLock on his door. It was tuned to him and him alone. That the cipher seemed to track the same progression that he now watched in the corner of his vision was unlikely a coincidence, and a fact he refused to overlook. Perhaps the most troubling of all, was that he expected he knew the culprit.
Fendri.
The obnoxious steward to the King had been surprised when Risens had presented him with the sketched version of the sign. Risens knew that he would have likely faced an inquisition from the man had he not slammed the door in his face. Now, as much as it pained him to consider it, he wanted nothing more than to pin the man down, to understand his unexpected reaction. Of course, true to his aggravating norm, now that his presence was desired, he was nowhere to be found.
Risens studied the designs of the runes, noting the pattens in how they were constructed. Each digit had a simple yet definitive base. From there, with each consecutive ten ticks, a line would be removed from the glyph. Since Risens believed the numbers to be counting down, that meant a line would be added as the symbol increased by tens. Once the pattern for the single digits was understood, things seemed to fall quickly into place.
The mask had long returned and the water cooled to tepid before he finished rinsing off and extracted himself from the tub. Confirming that he’d removed his gear and the Raven’s Guide from the tattered cloak on the floor, he kicked it into the small hearth built into the wall. The meager fire—the perpetually burning flame—greedily accepted the offering, flaring its thanks.
He had no trouble selecting another matching pair of black pants, tunic, and cloak from his wardrobe. Though the Shadows Shroud once again covered his face, he understood it would be some time before he again felt the peculiar absence of the metal against his skin.
With little to do to pass the time in the solitude of his room, he flowed into a lengthy series of warmups and stretches. Focusing mainly on his left arm, he worked out the kinks of the newly healed bones, regaining his mobility rapidly.
With his task for the King accomplished, he had an unexpected spell of downtime. Though he was permitted to come and go as he pleased, it wasn’t as if he was on holiday. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to lounge in the comfortable grass of the King’s Exposition or wander through the merchant stalls at leisure. When he wasn’t doing the bidding of the King, he was to be training or studying, memorizing the faces, stations, likes, desires, and secrets of much of the noble class. The bastard children fathered here in Windwake alone were in great enough numbers to found their own fiefdoms, though most had been abandoned to a life on the streets or lost to the blade.
Now, he felt an abnormal anxiousness brewing where none typically dwelled. He craved a return to the Raven’s Court and the Roost within. The mask had saved him on two occasions since its unexpected application. What other skills could be found within its darkened halls? Now that the hours had passed, he tucked the Raven’s Guide, candles, and a pencil into his new cloak before removing the mask and exiting to the tunnels beyond.
***
Risens stalked through the shadows of the Raven’s Court, chewing a piece of dried meat he’d purchased from a vendor along the way. Time worked differently in the Roost than it did in Windwake—likely all of Halthome and the world beyond. His hunger, thirst, and energy, however, were still finite. He carried a small leather sack with a waterskin, and some foodstuffs along for this journey, not wanting to be called away by banal needs before his mind was through in the place.
Risens slowed as he entered the dilapidated ruins of the once mighty Raven’s Court. The moaning of the breeze pulling through the alleys silenced as he crossed the threshold of its gate. Mother Raven was nowhere to be found, though a single bird watched him, perched on one of the narrow waxy ledges protruding from the crumbling walls. It cocked its head before taking to flight with a shriek.
He grinned as a single feather took its place. There was no way of knowing if the same peculiar method he’d used to unlock the remaining doors would be needed, but preparation never hurt anyone. If raven’s feathers were to act as keys to the doors, he would need to be diligent in his search for them. He stopped a pace away from the statue, watching as the creature disappeared behind the clouds. He looked down when the stone wings unfurled with a heavy groan.
The countdown in the corner of his vision flashed with a number he now understood. He needed the Shadows Shroud to survive the portal.
“It seems you have learned something, after all.” The voice of Mother Raven floated down from behind him, as if she was still in flight while she spoke. Wheeling around, he found her standing a few meters away, her arms folded behind her back, looking curiously like her namesake.
“You seem to have a brain in your skull, yet you are far too reckless. Your attempts to seek the Raven’s Guide brought about such a racket. Was it worth the effort, fledgling?”
He had pondered the same thoughts with the discovery of the tome at the Shrine of the Raven, hidden within the timeless halls of the Roost. In purely a physical sense, it had been a lifesaver, yet he’d gained nothing from the information. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.
“Perhaps in the sense that you’ve survived the clumsy ordeal and learned in the process, it has been invaluable. All learning has worth. All actions have consequences; some opening paths to fortune, while others to ruin. Some are one and the same. You must learn to act beyond the moment, for your tests will only prove more challenging as you progress.”
The sharp tapping sounds of claws on the stone followed her as she shifted past where he stood. Stopping at the edge of the statue, she reached out and gently rubbed her hand on the feathers at the tip of the wing.
“You did well to decipher the first test in the Roost, fledgling,” she admitted. For the first time, he thought he noted the hint of pride in her voice. “Your intentional actions proved their worth. I cannot say the same for discovering another benefit of the Shadows Shroud. Do not tempt death’s door, for it will likely not save you again.”
“I assure you that it was not intentional,” Risens said, his voice wet with frustration. “How am I to learn of its other abilities? There are neither instructions, nor a tome to read. You are here to guide me, are you not?”
With a heavy flap of pumped wings, she vanished from where she stood, leaving only a feather floating behind. He whipped around at the sound of talons on the ground behind him. He went rigid, his hands closing on the hilts of his dagger.
He was too late. The pressure of the point against his neck was unnerving. His mind flashed back to his training during his youth. It had thankfully been years since he’d felt a blade dimpling the skin of his neck.
Mother Raven stood before him, her arm extended with her cloak wrapped around it. She held no blade in her hand, but a feather of the garment was hardened into a deadly point. Though she was easily a head shorter than him, her presence was impressive. If she had wanted him dead, he had no doubt he would not have been granted the time to prevent it.
He had erred. Let his frustration take root. He’d allowed himself to become familiar and complacent—and that was how men died. Risens was sublimely confident in his abilities, yet in the moment, he understood that his current skills amounted to nothing in the face of this ancient being.
Her methods had been obtuse. He released his hold on the daggers at his side, offering a nod of acceptance.
She lowered her feather blade but her eyes remained locked on his. This was a warning but also a promise. The power, the possibilities of his calling were enlightening.
