castleBanx
patreon
Chapter 45: THE LAST VESTIGES
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 19:33:44 +0000 UTCThe contrast of the fiery, wavy strand of hair against the stark white of the healers head dressing was Risens first clue as to the identity of who had just entered the room. With the Shadows Shroud returned to his face, they matched. The lower half of her face was covered by the mask of her station, Tawny’s smiling eyes greeted him.
“What ails you today, sir?” Her voice was distorted, but knowing the true tones behind the words, the disguise no longer worked for him. Without waiting for his reply, she glided across the room, her forehead wrinkling in disapproval of the wounds over his exposed arm. She prodded gently around the cuts before her eyes rolled over the rest of his battered form.
“Is there anywhere else beside your arm?” she asked, her eyes lingering on his covered abdomen and chest.
“None that have not been tended to already.” His eyes met with hers as he spoke. Her nod confirmed her understanding. There would be no formalities here and few questions asked.
Tawny moved to the cabinet, collecting a fresh towel, cleaning solution, and the vial of abhorrent ointment that made him wince at the mere sight of it. He’d felt the burn of its binding properties stitching together too many wounds to count. Over the last few day, it seemed like we was in perpetual need of treatment. The trials of the Roost and unexpected challenges of his royal tasks had proven most painful.
“Your lacerations appear superficial. You’ve treated the worst of them adequately.” She kept her back to him, talking over her shoulder as she arranged her supplies on a thin metal tray. “I’ll do what I can to clean then up and stave off any infections.”
“My thanks.”
She returned to him, and her gloved fingertips hovered over one deep gash in particular. “These wounds look jagged. Not caused by blades, I presume?”
The healing arts were varied, encompassing more than just the bandaging of wounds, treatment of infections, and mending of bones. As most would practice outside the convenience of a city, supplies were often scare. Many healers routinely harvested their materials from natural sources, gathering ingredients from private gardens or foraging them from the bounty of the lands. The intimate understanding of the careful concoctions brought with it the knowledge that even a slight disproportion of the essential components could turn a healing balm into a deadly poison.
Mages were protective of their craft, rigid in their preconceived superiority. They would vehemently deny the ties that connected the sect but there was significant crossover between the magical and medicinal arts.
Perhaps she would be able to determine clues to the concoctions that had brought him such oddly shaped injuries.
“MageVials,” he replied, carefully and discreetly removing the small glass vials from of his pocket. He held one up between thumb and forefinger, but made it clear he wasn’t handing them over quite yet. At least not where prying eyes might be able to see. There was no telling how many of the King’s agents had visual access to this room whether by peephole or magical means. “The liquid needles are to thank for the wounds. Thankfully, the wind was blowing or the Cimmerian Calcify would have had a greater effect. Surprisingly, I haven’t seen any this potent in years.”
She squinted as he explained the cause of his injury. As she placed the tray of her supplies on the end of the cot, he shifted his hand, nonchalantly slipping the vials under the neatly folded spare cloth. Again she nodded in silent understanding.
There was difficulty in remaining silent through her careful ministrations. While she had never been rough or unkind in her treatments, he noted the distinct, unexpected tenderness in her care. He resolved to discuss a code with which they could communicate if the need arose. Like his private chambers, he no longer had the illusion of security anywhere in his wing. From prowling around the castle, Windwake and many of the manor homes throughout the city, there were few where the spying wasn’t rampant. Knowledge, it seemed was the most frequently peddled commodity. Depending on the information, it was worth a price heftier than gold.
Communicating through the agony of the healing salve would have been nearly impossible anyway as his jaws clenched from the pain. Thankfully, Tawny completed her treatment quickly while Risens did his best to make a mental note of time in his head. He had been granted leave to see the healer and clean up before reporting to the King. With the news of the failed attempt on his life, Fendri would give the orders to clear the hedge maze. An hour would be acceptable, thankfully giving him just enough time to remove the Shadows Shroud.
“These will heal without any issue or scarring,” Tawny noted as she cleaned up her supplies. He watched her subtly collect the mageVials, slipping them discretely into the pocket of her gown. “If you have no further need for me.”
She left the words hanging in the air as her probing gaze settled again on his chest.
“Thank you, healer,” he whispered, genuine sentiment flavoring his voice. The rise of her high cheek bones, barely visible under the mask, hinted at the smile beneath.
“Do try to be safe, young Rightmaker.” Even through the distortion, he could hear her failing to keep the emotion from her voice. She understood the severity of what he’d just been through. “You know where to find me if you ever need healing.”
Risens offered her a nod as he slipped through the windStep out of the clinic.
With the solitude of his private chambers confirmed, he flipped the hourglass on his desk before changing out of his filthy clothes. Donning a fresh outfit—one free of blood and tatters—he restocked his gear, this time moving the second set of the King’s blade to the small of his back. The Raven Talons would be his primary blades from now on.
He watched the sands shifting through the glass as he pored over the stolen pages of the coded Dreamcatchers manuscript. What information was concealed in the confusing script? With nothing more than a scattering of numbers throughout the pages, he found nothing he could grasp onto that made any sense, leaving them a frustrating mystery.
That the pages of the tome contained images of the locations near two of his windSteps was likely the most disturbing news. He was not the only silent blade in the King’s employ, though the discovery now made him question every movement he made. Maintaining a watchful eye on his surroundings had been a diligent skill he’d maintained since his youth. He obsessed over ever movement he made through the city. He was certain he’d have noticed if someone had followed him, though paranoia left an unsettled inky cloud over his confidence.
His movements with Marlaine and his original meeting with Tawny had been sloppy. He didn’t fear for his own life. That was not to say that he was overly reckless or cavalier with his safety. He desired to live, though letting abject fear cripple him would have amounted to a death sentence. His concerns powered his constant vigilance.
A sinking feeling, a vast yawning pit opened in his gut. He could protect himself, yet if he’d been followed, both Tawny and Marlaine were now in danger.
Tamping down the feeling of helplessness, he watched as the final grains of sand slipped from the upper bulb of the hourglass. The light that filtered through the artificial window had faded from the late glow of evening into the ethereal moments after the sun dipped beneath the horizon. It was time for him to meet with the King. Carefully folding the pages into the Raven’s Guide before tucking it away into his cloak, he dismissed the Shadows Shroud before exiting his chambers. The awkward feeling of nakedness without the cover of the mask seemed be more prevalent owing to his current and dire situation. The truths of reality had been blurred, leaving him confused and questioning.
Risens followed a familiar pathway through the narrow, winding, interior halls in the castle. Unsurprisingly, Fendri had ordered him to report to the council chamber. There was no place for him to remain concealed within the room—or so the steward believed. Hidden behind an oversized suit of armor, Risens had attended far more meetings than he cared to watch.
The droning complaints and the veiled machinations of the councilors was nearly unbearable. Having no ambitions toward politics, he viewed the nobles through a lens that cut through their duplicity. Most were self-serving to the core, feigning interest in the Kingdom only at the benefit of their power, gold, and most important, influence. His negotiations were honest, done with blades, not poisoned words.
A wicked thought made him grin: there would be two empty seats when the council met again.
Risens paused as he reached the small antechamber to the council hall. It was questionably big enough to be considered a room, hardly wide enough to fit more than the single wooden chair that was squeezed into the corner, and the disguised panel that allowed access to the council chamber beyond. With a presence that could make even the most expansive halls feel small, Fendri’s sudden appearance through the concealed door brought with it crushing constriction.
“Alas, you’ve finally decided to show up,” the steward grumbled, his confidence returning now that he was free from the burden of the deadly mageVials. “His Majesty could not wait. As such, he is in council with others who value his time far better than you. He is not ready to deal with you yet. You’ll be summoned in due time. I warn you, do not try his patience.”
With a glare, Fendri wheeled around, departing through the same concealed doorway he’d entered.
Gritting his teeth, Risens whispered a series of expletives using the Voice of the Raven to mimic the man’s voice. The copy sounded clear to his ears, though the infuriating tone pouring from his mouth tasted like acid.
The shock took a moment to hit him. Unlike the innate ability to block the effects of airborne toxins and breath underwater that were limited to when the Shadows Shroud covered his face, the skill, the voice, was independent.
The possibilities flooded his mind as there was nothing to do but wait. His wasn’t a position of authority. He could neither demand the King’s ear nor rush him. Not if he wanted to live. Every heartbeat that thumped in his chest flashed another symbol, another decreasing count in the timer that could seal his fate. Time ticked interminably by.
Ten.
His worry mounted. The urge to depart, to return again when the cooldown had ended and the timer had reset was intense. His disregard and disrespect for the King would be noted. His absence and his impatience would be punished. Severely.
Five.
Risens cursed his predicament, his mind struggling to find answers that would be believable without raising suspicion. None were more than plausible when he pressure tested them in his mind.
Two.
The decision was made. He would try his luck. Releasing a long sigh of pent up frustration, he re-summoned the familiar feeling of the Shadows Shroud. The metal covered him with a calm that countered his mounting anxiety. Preparation and caution would be crucial.
Squeezing his hands around the feathered handles of the Ravens Talons, he could feel their violent urges echoing in his mind.
With a muffled groan, the door to the council chambers shifted inward. Fendri’s figure blotted out the sight of the room beyond.
The taunting cackle of laughter that ricocheted through his skull sounded like the cawing of ravens.
