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Chapter 87: RETURN TO THE ROOST
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 01:56:22 +0000 UTCHe stopped counting the number of times he read over the final passage in the stolen pages. The land that floated underfoot felt as if suddenly plummeted into the void below, spinning as it spiraled out of control.
Risens had lost all track of how long had he’d spent staring at the words. Working through the cipher had been slow going, though he felt the time spend on the rest of the page was little more than a blink of his eyes in comparison. Time stopped here in the Barren but at the moment, he felt as if his entire life paused in the aftermath.
To most, the King’s Rightmaker was nothing more than a boogyman, a tale whispered to misbehaving children so they would mind their manners. With the wisdom of age, it was oftentimes forgotten, only to crop up in rumors or conspiracies surrounding mysterious deaths. It was a name that droned under the music celebrating most parades of death when accident, age or illness weren’t the obvious cause.
In other circles, it was a title revered as much as it was feared. For the assassin, the King’s Rightmaker was a title only the exceptional few would ever reach. Few had met the aberration and lived to tell the tale. For the noble, his was a scourge, a promise of retribution should their grumblings become too vehement. He’d heard the cautious whispers over the years, almost as if uttering the name would bring the silent blades it its death upon the speaker. Never had he heard a name connected with the title.
That not only a name, but his name was written on the parchment sparked an irrational wave of panic.
The coincidence was as unexpected as it was startling. He knew he was not the first to bear the name nor even the only within the city, yet the coincidence was alarming. Was he somehow tied to the fate of the devastation of Hazelglen. He was certain he would have been far too young to have participated.
Risens wracked his mind for any suppressed memories from his violent youth. As a natural defense mechanism, he’d taught himself at a very young age to tamp down the most potent, emotional memories. The swiftest, most scarring beatings were hidden beneath layers of mental scarring. He’d seen, and done enough killing to have desensitize himself to the carnage, knowing one day he would take his place among the eternal fires of Pylkev. He could find no traces of life beyond the endless training and killing.
Risens folded the parchment, his fingers quivering as they slid it into the pages of the Raven’s Guide. Questions filled his head, far more than he could begin to comprehend the answers for. He was a killer and a spy. He was accustomed to finding information, people and items that others desired to keep secret. The quest he assigned himself would likely be the hardest yet. His normal sources, the castle library and the scholars who walked the shelves would be of no use. Adalhard’s Bank of Tomes was a repository of information though he dared not return there with the heightened focus. The thought was troubling, though he gave it a measure of unexpected credence.
Perhaps among the wealth of information concealed within the Gilded Cage within Lady Myrenas’s estate more clues could be found. He knew without a doubt that none would have been able to access the vault. Only he knew the codewords and possessed the tonality to accomplish the task. It was a task he was prepared to undertake. He knew that the grounds would be swarming with the most loyal of the King’s soldiers. They would be he Kingdom’s experts, the investigative team and those best suited for cleaning up the most inconvenient of messes that would have been dispatched. He understood that many would likely meet death by his blades. Collateral damage was always something he tried to avoid when at all possible, yet at the moment, he cared little for the concerns of propriety.
He didn’t relish the duty of whatever commander oversaw the process. By no decision of their own, they had been forced into a hopeless position. If they survived his blades, they would undoubtably face the vengeful wrath of the King as the empty reports and their continued lack of progress reached his anxious ears.
He sighed as he rose from the edge of the remnants of the bed. It seemed that even with days to delay before his report, his tasks now vied with each other, pushing their individual importance and priority above the next in line.
He scanned the room, averting his focus from the present thoughts that threatened to consume him. His gaze rolled over the structure around him, viewing the rundown shell of a building through the lens of possibility. This was a canvas for him so create, a stone for him to carve. The Under would feel the sting of the newly charged blades. Firs, however he had more to learn from the Roost.
Stuffing the Raven’s Guide back into the concealed pocket within the folds of his cloak he crossed the chamber. His tangent, leading directly to the door to the Roost paused abruptly at the edge of the round bowl in the middle of the room. The feather, deposited when Mother Raven used the Dull Wind was balanced carefully, as if positioned by steady hands. He pocketed the offering before moving to the solid, heavy stone panel.
Like the doorway that granted him access to the Under, the carved panel to the Roost slid quietly into the wall with a wave of his hand. The Quillkey commanded its opening presenting a view of the wavering black void of the portal. The crushing pressure and unbearable cold passed in a flash with little lingering disorientation as he again opened his eyes to a view of the lofty, hallowed halls. Though little time had passed since he’d last explored the secrets of the hall, it felt as if he’d been away for ages.
Every twist and turn of his days, every new piece of information seemed to begin another seismic shift in his reality. The truths he had come to know, even those embedded into the very fiber of his being cracked and crumbled away. He paused taking in the sight of the grand hall before him. The power that lingered just out of his reach was enticing, it lured him forward, though it felt different this visit. Tendrils of power, invisible, yet clear to his senses pulled up from the hairline cracks in the mortar, snaking into the air like tiny trails of smoke. He shifted his hand, letting it cut through the line, noting the tingling sensation as it passed through. It was the essence that the Magus’s needed to produce their seemingly impossible feats.
Risens understood it now for what it truly was. Here in the Roost, like the Barren, it was everywhere, yet in places, it bubble through the gaps like springs cutting through the water. As was her norm, Mother Raven had left him with a development that challenged the very foundation of his existence before leaving again without fully explaining his skills. It seemed trial and error would again be the proper course forward. He nodded to the silent stone ravens as he paced walked the alley to the shrine of the raven that loomed at the edge of the darkness beyond. Their judgemental stares seemed more muted than normal.
Finding his pack and supplies, expectedly undisturbed he took a bite of the dried meat he’d stored, working through the chewy salted offering while he contemplated his next step. He’d solved the trials in four of the sealed doors leaving more than half the first floor still unexplored. tilting his head backward, he scanned the darkened openings on the upper levels of the room. Could each of them container another door to enter, another power to achieve? The possibilities were far too extensive to consider. He knew that power to control the dull wind lurked behind one, though the others were still a mystery.
Risens shook his head as he settled again on the time honored tradition of simply guessing. Grabbing one of the candles from his pack he carefully carried the flame to the door to the left corner of the room. As expected the shadows burned off as soon as the light of the flame breached the darkness.
The door that revealed itself before him matched the form of all the others while the features etched into its face were unsurprisingly unique. He carefully ran his fingers over the designs searching for any false panels or disguised key holes. Finding none, he took a step back to view the whole picture once more. There face of the door was covered with a variety of swirls and loops of different shapes and sizes. He’d seen a similar feature scrolled into the various manuscripts he’d read, used to give definition to the invisible wind in pictures. Viewing the panel from afar, it seemed that many of the designs bordered the edge of the door, the mirror image sprouting from the opposite side.
Along either edge, near the middle of the panel the doors only angular feature stood out from the rounded designs. About the size of his hand, it formed a three-sided rectangular frame around the a similar swirl. As with the other features that bordered the edges, its adjoining image, squared frame and all continued on the opposite side.
Each of the doors prior to this had a central focal point where the key, whether it be the stem of the feather or barbs had played a crucial part in unlocking the door. What he would have considered to be the point of attention on this door had been divided, the two halves split
As he looked closer, he noted the discrepancy in the patterns. The images were not mirrors of each other, but continuations as the designs were created over the seams of a canvas that was at one point rolled like parchment. The decorative features appeared as if the wind blew in two places at once.
Risens traced one of the features with the tip of his finger. As he pushed against the raised stone, he was astonished to find that its shifted slightly with his touch. No more than a fraction, but the movement was there as the design seems to spin slowly. Where the definitive lines of the swirling pattern met the panel of the door, they continued as if the remainder of the design had been hidden behind the stone.
Making a full turn, the pattern stopped with an abrupt finality. A distant click, hollow and booming sounded through the hall. With the flapping of wings, a stone raven extinguished the candles floating in their small pool before taking to flight.
He was certain that rotating the design was a key to solving the puzzle though he had missed something in the process. Risens shifted his focus to the pattern on the opposite side finding that it moved like the other. Making a complete rotation it too stopped abruptly as the cipher failed.
Another stone raven departed the chamber. He could feel the judgemental glares of the remaining birds as they directed their ire toward him.
Using both hands, he twisted both of the designs simultaneously. The peculiar manner of their distinct separation and the border made him feel as if they were connected though they were represented on opposite sides of the door. His excitement mounted as, spinning in unison, they both made a full circle before continuing their rotation on to the next. Completing the second furn, his hopes were dashed by the sudden stop, booming echo and departure of the stone raven.
Risens was thankful that failing this test was not as painful as one of the others had been. Tracing the rune incorrectly with his finger and then his blade had both proven agonizing. The keyhole at the first and stabbing the other had been painless.
There was a commonality between the three of them one that he hadn’t paid attention to.
The feather.
Collecting the one Mother Raven had left behind during her last movement from his pocket, he viewed the door again, twisting the feather between his fingers. He’d used it as a key to unlock the door, a quill to paint the rune and finally as a dagger to stab through the stone. He was certain it had a purpose, yet what it was currently eluded him.
Frowning at the puzzle, he idly slapped the long, black feather on the palm of his opposite hand as he pondered the possibilities. The gently breeze, nothing more than a slight breath of air reached the door.
Had he not been staring at the door, he’d likely have missed the barely perceptible movement of design on the left side of the door. Directly to the side of where he wafted the feather against his hand.
He grinned as the solution came to light.
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