A Conspiracy of Ravens: The Codex of Wretches & Kings, #1

By Stephen Hubbard

"A grim tableau of conspiracy, murder, and magic. Hubbard paints in shades of gray, but always seems to know which are the darker ones." —Christopher Ruocchio, author of The Sun Eater series

Once and an age --

The precipice of war is never more than the width of a blade away. Now, when the legendary assassin known as the Black Rose has slaughtered Baron Dartris Gorsha and all who made up his house, then fled with the nobleman's young daughter, three nations that knew tenuous peace prepare for the brutality of prolonged conflict.

Yet a new and mysterious danger has emerged. The Shrike arrives to offer mercy and vengeance in equal measure to all those with a role to play, bringing cryptic messages from his unnamed master. Underlying his threats is one simple command: Retrieve the daughter of Gorsha.

Three Ravens of Danot — Celnor, Derrigan, and Martyn — are called upon to protect the child, and they seek answers to troubling questions and motivations. Manipulated by their queen, feeling as no more than pawns in the history unfolding around them, they conspire to bring about what they believe is a necessary change to the balance of power.

The secrets of their own shadowed pasts serve to pull at their union, threatening to unmake their pact, and leading them to ask one simple question: Are there roads too entrenched in darkness to allow for redemption?

In a time of growing doom and dread, when long lost magic begins to find a new foothold, Wretches and Kings alike maneuver and scheme as the Codex is inscribed with the fell deeds and heroic sacrifice compelled by a conspiracy of Ravens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Hubbard
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227526052

Stephen Hubbard

Stephen Hubbard was raised in Western New York before traipsing to various stops in the US, and ultimately settling in the Twin Cities area of Minnesota. A longtime book reviewer and an avid hockey fan, he spends his time with his four kids and his wife. He also likes pie. A Conspiracy of Ravens is his first novel.

Book preview

For Stacy

It would take a whole book to explain why.

PROLOGUE

THE REAVE

NESTLED BETWEEN THE banks of the great Vempristi Canyon, the Reave roiled and shifted in a ghostly dance that instilled both awe and fear in those who came to bear witness. It flooded every crag and crevasse that was born when the land was rent and the canyon was born, the eternal scar of corrupted magic. Few remained who remembered that cataclysm that gave it shape, when mountains crumbled and lakes boiled, when rain ran red and when the land violently shifted and drifted apart. And in the chaos of that ending, the Reave came to be.

Even the Seven Citaji had no explanation for its design, could not provide any answers for where it came from or what it contained. All that was known was that when they, the greatest wielders of magic throughout the world, unleashed their power in an effort to save that world, they lost control. The dark thread of corruption unknowingly woven into the amalgamation of their individual might brought unspeakable destruction and death upon an unsuspecting people.

They brought an end to the war, as intended. They also brought despair, fear, and ultimately spite for their kind. Those who survived did their best to hide away, to strip away the vestiges of their former life and secret themselves away, blending the best they could into the general populace. Feigning normalcy. Settling for a life of ordinary complacency.

Yes, the war came to an end. It also brought the Reave.

Like a thunderhead, it settled into the canyon. Standing atop the cliffside, one could watch the lightning flash within the greyed mists that coiled and cycled. Some even swore that if they concentrated hard enough, they could hear the Reave whispering to them, calling to them, beckoning them. Some dared enter the mists, taking unstable roads down into the tear in the land and walking into the dark fog. Their bravery did not affect their destiny, however, and those who stepped in did not step back out. They were lost to time. Only once did one who dared enter return. As for his companions, he had no memory and no knowledge of their fate. He did not speak of his journey. He said he could not.

The Reave held sway over the broken land, the misted king of a shattered world, and now under the chill of a steady autumn rain, a servant of the mist emerged. He stepped out from the Reave, wisps of cloud swirling in his wake, his torch hissing with the kiss of the raindrops. He looked down at his hand, turning it over, examining himself, his grey tunic and pants, his black cloak. He turned his face up to the sky and let the rain wash over him. Something in his memory recalled the shadow of childhood, of summer storms and laughter as he ran through puddles with—

The memory was gone.

No matter, he thought, reaching back into the mist with his free hand and pulling his horse through as a magician impresses children with the simple trick of drawing a rabbit from an empty box. The horse tossed its head, fighting the command to come forward but the man did not relent.

I have my commands, he thought. Time is of great import now. We mustn’t delay or she will be displeased.

Come, he said to his mount, surprised as his voice died on the heaviness of the air, smothered by mist and darkness. We have much to do and many a long ride ahead. Are you ready, my dear boy? He patted the horse on the neck and kissed him. Of course you are. I have nothing but faith in you.

The man took several steps away from the Reave, holding the torch aloft and waving it left and right as he sought to find a path in the gloom. He squinted even as the light dimmed, its radiance unable to penetrate the shadows of the Vempristi Canyon with any great effect. Left or right?

He turned his head back to the Reave. Did it just speak? He shook his head, unable to accept that he heard what he heard. There was a hiss from the depths of the Reave and he felt the shiver up his spine. This time, he nodded. To delay would be to fail in his task. So much to do. So much. Getting up from the floor of the canyon was first and foremost. Though he was commanded to other tasks, all of them led to the same road, the same ending, the same man.

The Black Rose.

He would find this man.

He would have his revenge.

ONE

THE BLACK ROSE

IT WAS NOT supposed to end this way.

The Black Rose stood, for the first time in a storied career of shadow and steel and blood, frozen in place and staring down at the growing pool of crimson beneath the collapsed soul at his feet. For the first time, he felt his chest heave, the beat of his heart quicken, his breathing hasten. For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind that sought the will to bring the fallen to rise and flee. For the first time, he shivered at his own coldness, felt the growing sting of revulsion at his own life of detached cruelty. The blade still rested in his hand, his grip loose around the familiar handle, blood dripping lazily from its sharp smile to end in a spatter on the cheek of the dead boy. For the first time, he felt the chilling kiss of regret.

Dartris Gorsha cried out from the far side of the chamber, bringing him back to the present, solidifying him once more in the moment at hand. Slowly he turned his head, watching as the mortally wounded baron of Kirken attempted to pull himself through his own growing outline of blood, his hands failing to find a strong enough grip in the slick fluid. He struggled still, calling out with a voice that sounded as if he were choking on stones.

Breathe, Tavian, he begged. Please. Not my boy. Please don’t take my boy. The sorrow in his voice would be enough to make the whole world weep if only it could hear him. The Black Rose was the only audience to the baron’s despair.

He dropped the knife onto the stone floor, sending an echo through the room and out into the empty hallway beyond. Four long and purposeful strides brought him before Gorsha. The dying man tried to push with his booted feet as his hands clawed at unyielding stone, clambering for enough purchase to draw closer to his son despite the impending finality of his own demise.

It was not supposed to end this way.

Dropping to one knee, the assassin slid his hands under Gorsha’s armpits. The baron belched a raspy scream and vainly fought to free himself, but the Black Rose only shook his head and tried to shush him. Warm blood soaked into his pants as he heaved and postured his prey into a sitting position, Gorsha’s back now propped against the sturdy leg of the gildenwood table. He stood upright again and glided back to the motionless child. Reaching down to lift him, he was startled that Gorsha found the strength to yell.

Don’t you t—touch—my boy!

The Black Rose faced Gorsha and held his gaze for a brief moment until he ignored the command and lifted the child. He paused to read the boy’s—Tavian’s—features as he held him in silence. He looked to be no more than seven autumns old. The nest of brown hair was matted with fresh blood; the same blood which no longer flowed from the wounds to his neck and chest. Despite the pleas of the father, the Black Rose knew that none of the gods would save this child. It was a prayer on the deaf ears of the myths of man.

The eyes captured him and shook him. Even in death, they were a beautiful shade of brown. Even in death, they cut into him; no glimmer of life, no spark of joy or fear. Haunting. Looking back into those eyes, the assassin saw something else that was missing, something that took him by surprise.

There was no blame.

It was not supposed to end this way.

As if from being roused from a dream, he could gradually hear Gorsha screaming at him with all the power his failing breath would permit. He half-listened as the baron pleaded for the life of his son, calling on the curses of all the gods who ever existed in the heavens or the minds of men to assail his attacker. The words passed right through him. All of that pain and anger failed to touch him. No, it was Tavian’s hollow stare that cut the deepest.

The Black Rose walked back to Gorsha, never looking away from the child, still studying him. Every line, every curve, every blemish. Kneeling, he eased Tavian into his father’s grasping arms, helping the man secure his boy in a careful and loving embrace on his lap. Unconsciously he brushed the hair from the boy’s forehead before withdrawing back to the fireplace. It was only right that he give a father one last moment to grieve his son. There was not much time left. He exhaled, seeking to center himself within his purpose once more, to avoid the doubt and panic that had begun to gnaw at his once strong foundation.

You’re. S—ssss—s such a. G—good. B—b—good. Boy. Gorsha clung to his son, his voice breaking as his breaths grew quick and shallow. Don’t. Go. T—T—T—Tav—

The Black Rose turned to stare into the dancing fire. His eyes darted from red tendril to orange coal as he worked the details over in his mind. Something had gone wrong. So terribly wrong. Gorsha was here, as expected. He was the mark. Nothing had been said about the boy. Nothing at all about the boy who walked in at the most inopportune of moments. Assassination was more than mere elimination. Assassination was about sending a message, and this? This was the wrong message. The children were not supposed to be here.

Children?

The daughter. Is she also here in the residence?

He turned to look upon his target as the thought chilled his spine. Baron Gorsha wept as he cradled his son. He slid back toward them with the smoothness of a shadow growing beneath a setting sun. He reached under his cloak and drew forth a black rose. Holding it to his nose, he took a slow and patient breath, his eyes closing as he sampled its fragrance. Reaching over to Tavian, he opened the boy’s hand and closed the thin fingers around the stem as Gorsha failed to fight back, all his attention focused on trying to keep breathing.

Do not worry, the Black Rose assured Gorsha in a tone so soft it surprised even him. He will not feel the thorns. I promise you. He remained there, sitting back on his ankles and watching as the baron began to fade, Gorsha’s head dipping forward before snapping back. He refused to go easy. The nobleman coughed as he kissed his son on the forehead one last time. The assassin drew out a second black rose.

I need you to know, between you and me, that it wasn’t personal.

With a gloved hand, he forced open Gorsha’s mouth and slid the stem of the rose carefully into his throat, pushing the thorns past the occasional resistance, and leaving the bud of the flower to rest on his bloodied lips. The baron’s breathing grew more labored and the pain in his eyes flashed with panic. It lasted only seconds before he let go and was freed to join his son in the void.

It was during those last heartbeats that the Black Rose looked upon Tavian, wrapped up in his father’s clutching arms, and felt the long walled-up cavern in his heart blast open. Grief denied for what seemed a lifetime spilled into that vacuum and threatened to engulf him and he sobbed, wondering if Gorsha in his final moment saw him crying. Before it could overwhelm him, a singular thought snapped through his brain.

Children.

He rose to his feet and without a second glance, he walked out of the chamber through the doorway to the north side of the room and into the hallway leading to the private chambers of the noble family. Silent as a whisper he moved, his boots nothing more than a minute tic-tic-tic on the stones of the floor. A door to his left was open—a small room that no doubt belonged to Tavian. Gorsha’s suite was at the end of the hallway but that room was vacant, he knew. Only one door remained closed in the hallway, just one room remaining to be inspected. He knew what he would find. He rested a gloved hand on the brass handle and hesitated a moment before pushing the door open.

Light spilled into the room as water released from the constraints of a dam, flooding the space and growing the darkness with the yellow glow from the torchlight of the hallway. Curled up in the small bed was a sleeping girl who, from her size, could be eight or nine autumns old. Her red hair shimmered in the glow of the light. The Black Rose walked in and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. The pressure and weight of his body caused the girl to stir, her hands rising to her eyes in balled fists as she chased away the sleep and the burn of unexpected light.

Daddy?

No, child, he answered her, and as she faced him fully, his heart stopped. Memory and sorrow collided in his mind but he pushed forward, fending off those thoughts as she looked at him with those familiar glittering emerald eyes. She was confused and still not awake. Her brow furrowed yet she remained inquisitive, almost trusting.

Who are you?

I need you to come with me, little one, he said. He ignored her query and remembered at that moment that she could not even see him for the hood and the dark mask he wore.

Where ish my daddy?

Your father had to leave unexpectedly. He wanted me to find you and make sure nothing happened to you. He asked me to keep you safe. He smiled under his mask though she could not see it. He placed a hand against her head, pushing back her red hair that continued to call to his deepest memories. It’s okay, child. I won’t let anything happen to you.

The little girl’s chin began to quiver and tears pooled on the rims of her eyes, but did not fall.

Daddy left?

The Black Rose could only nod in reply.

He didn’t even shay goobye. The first tear rolled down her pale cheek as her hands tugged and tightened around the stuffed rabbit she slept with.

He had no time. He asked me to tell you that he loves you very much. More than anything in the world. And— He paused, holding up a finger. —He wanted you to have this. He reached to a small pouch on his belt and pulled it free, unravelling the drawstring. With care, he tipped out a clear jewel the size of his smallest fingernail into his palm and held it out for the little girl.

What ish that? she asked, hesitant to touch it.

Legends say that it is a fragment of the fabled star that flies through the sky. The one that signifies the start of the Grand Tourney in the country of Illiot. He smiled for himself again as she took the jewel into her tiny hand, turning it over as she studied it, prisms of light flaring to life. It is very rare and very beautiful. He wanted you to have it because you— He continued to regard her, his head tilting as thoughts needled his mind. She met his gaze and he was lost in the emerald pools he found there. He could barely hear his voice as he finished. Because you are very rare and very beautiful to him.

I don’t know that shtory. She turned her attention to the jewel once more and after a few moments she looked back at him.

What ish your name?

I am the Black Rose, child. He felt her stiffen on the bed, her muscles bunching up with fright. He stood up and held out his hand to her. We must be on our way if I am to keep you safe as your father has asked.

The young girl closed her grip around the gem, locking her small fingers into the tightest, safest fist she could make. Before stepping into his embrace she hesitated, then bent down and retrieved the tattered and careworn rabbit by one of its floppy ears. The Black Rose held her as gently as he had ever held anything in his life, a mix of fear and genuine compassion, both of which surprised him. She was heavier than he expected, and in his head he already began calculating the upcoming ride, determining the extra stress the added burden would place on his mare, and how that would play into her speed. He felt the young girl’s breath on his neck as she draped her arms around his shoulders. His heart winced. He snared the blanket from the bed and hastily threw it around her frame. Two steps to the door and he stopped again.

Child, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You must do me one favor now. Starting right now at this very moment, you must close your eyes. Close them as tightly as you can and never open them until I tell you that all is well. No matter how much you want to, you must not open them. Do you understand what I am asking you? He felt her nod against his cheek. That’s a good girl. Close them now. A heartbeat after, believing it enough time for her to follow his instruction, they were in the hallway.

His steps were born of purpose. Hurriedly he tromped down the passage, his chest pounding with effort, his mind racing with furious thought, the young girl bouncing ever so slightly in his grasp. He kept turning it over and over in his head as he passed the bodies and entered the chamber where Gorsha lay lifeless with his son cradled in his arms.

It was not supposed to end this way.

He could not look on them as he crossed the room, exiting into the hallway on the far side. The brutality of this contract was beyond any he had ever accepted. She wanted a message sent and this was a message that would ring loudly.

Kill the guards.

Kill the servants.

Kill the baron.

Tavian was not part of the deal. The boy had the misfortune of entering the room as his father was feeling the bite of savage steel. Instinct led to reaction, compelling him to dispatch the intruder without so much as a breath of hesitation. He did not know it was a child until the small body collapsed at his feet, the youthful eyes panicked as the scream of the father echoed. He crumpled on lifeless stone, the red pool expanding under him in a rush.

And it brought back memories. Haunting memories.

The Black Rose clenched his jaw to the point where he felt it might break, his teeth grinding as he quickened his steps. Did she know the children would also be here? Did she intend the murder of the children? He needed to know the answer and it drove him onward, over the servant, down the stairs, around a corner, between two guards, and out into the rain of a humid late summer midnight.

You there!

The voice to his right was unexpected. His nerves already tense from the confusion running through his mind, he flinched and the girl gasped, her arms tightening around him. He watched the shadowed man step towards him with hand on hilt of sword. He could not allow this man to approach any closer. With a flick of his wrist and a surging step forward, the Black Rose released a knife from under his shirt sleeve and he planted the blade up under the jaw of the unsuspecting guard, twisting it for maximum effect. The guard gripped at his hand as his cries were drowned by the rush of his own blood. The force of the strike lifted the man from the ground and the Black Rose released him with a growl, watching him fall back while grasping at his throat with both hands as he struggled for air. The assassin’s eyes never straying from his prey, he unhooked a small crossbow from his belt, one that fit comfortably in one hand and was prepared for use, and fired the bolt into the skull of the fallen guard, silencing the doomed man.

The girl was crying.

Hush now, child, he soothed. We are almost away. He cannot hurt you now and soon there will be no one that can ever hurt you again. He caressed her back as he continued to hasten away from the small palatial home, steering clear of the main walkways and veering down into the shrubbery and trees to the east. Lightning helped guide his path by flashing every few minutes, the thunder a low rumble of disapproval, but somehow even in the pitch dark he knew precisely where he was going. There were no missteps, no disorientation, as if the wind whispered directions and the ground guided him true.

Soaked now, the two of them came up beside the shadowed outline of a horse standing patiently in the storm. The Black Rose told the girl she could open her eyes. He saw her open them with great caution and with it came her smile as she saw the horse. She reached out a hand and placed it on the strong neck of the mare, which snorted and nodded.

This is Mishushika. She is my greatest friend in all of the world and she will take us to where we can be safe and dry. And no matter what happens she will never let you fall from her back. He placed his gloved hand alongside her face, his thumb rubbing her cheek. You are safe now. I promise you.

That other man, she asked with a trembling voice that made her seem so small in his arms, he wash trying to get me?

Yes, he lied. He was. The admission made the girl cry once more.

Why? Why ish he after me? He allowed his eyes to survey his surroundings with a quick sweep of the dark. His senses told him they needed to be moving. Swiftly.

What is your name?

Teshalyn.

Tessalyn, he accounted for her impediment. I need you to stop now. We’ve come this far but we are not quite where we need to be. When we are under a sturdy roof and beside a warm fire, I will do my best to find the answers to those questions for you, but I do not know them now. I need you to stay calm right now and to trust me. Can you do that?

She nodded her assent and he reciprocated. A second survey of the trees and brush made him uneasy, as if the branches warned him of impending danger, though he saw nothing out of the ordinary in the gloom. He hoisted Tessalyn onto the back of the mare and then swung himself up behind her. He pinned her small frame firmly against him with his right hand as he patted the beast on the left flank and she burst into action., turning to the south and charging across the silent lands of the late baron of Kirken. Hooves thundered into yielding ground, kicking up water and mud and grass as a single thought continued to play through his troubled mind, sticking him like a thorn:

It was not supposed to end this way.

TWO

MARTYN

THOUGH MARTYN WAS familiar with the Black Rose and his growing legacy he had never met him. In truth, he didn’t know anyone who had. Thus he did not expect the dark-cloaked assassin to arrive in his Nest under cover of darkness, and especially not bearing a young girl as his companion. The child was scared. He could read the fear on her face with ease. What could possibly have brought the most legendary assassin of the realm to be in such haste? What would drive him to ride through one of the most violent storms of recent memory? And to my Nest?

Questions for a later time. For now, he just wanted to get the two of them safe within the Nest, get them rested, and then begin to unwind the tale and make sense of it all. He picked up the girl into his arms. She was soaked through to the bone, shivering and teeth chattering uncontrollably.

Hold tight, little child. Let’s get you warm.

He walked with urgency back toward the door, opened for him by another of his Ravens without even needing to be told. He shouted out orders as he stamped through the passageway, calling for the Black Rose’s horse to be cared for, for food to be brought, and for a hot bath to be drawn for the girl. Activity ramped up, actions imbued with a sense of immediacy as his words drove home with his commanding tone. Several men and women moved across his path, a chorus of voices competing with each other to roll out orders and complete the tasks in a timely fashion.

Martyn stopped long enough to grab a blanket from a passing Raven, wrapping it around the confused and startled young girl, rubbing her back as he carried her in an effort to hurry warmth into her bones. A glance over his shoulder showed the Black Rose several steps behind, water dripping from his cloak as he followed along, leaving a trail on the floor. He did not lower his hood, did not reveal his face.

Open that door, he called ahead, and an attentive man stepped to and flung the door inward, revealing a room teeming with warmth. Even Martyn felt it embrace him when he entered and he was not nearly as chilled as these two. Two giant bearskin rugs covered the floor, laid out in front of a fire that roared its fury in the confines of a stone fireplace. A comfortable chair was positioned a few feet from the blaze, a book set on the small table beside it awaiting its reader. Several candles were lit, bathing the room in a golden glow. Martyn set the girl carefully into the large chair and turned his attention to the man still standing in the doorway.

Tea. Now.

Yes, sir. The man turned to head on his mission when Martyn chimed in again, holding him to his position.

And dry clothes for him. He pointed at the assassin, who entered the room at that moment. The attendant departed and the Black Rose closed the door. Get those wet riding clothes off, Martyn said. You’ll catch your death. The Black Rose ignored him.

He looked at the girl, wrapped and still quivering from equal parts cold and fear. Her skin was pale and her lips were slightly blue. Martyn ran his hands up and down the blanket where her arms were tucked, assuring her that everything was going to be okay. Her hair was plastered to her forehead in no discernible pattern. From beneath the top fold of the blanket, he caught sight of the rabbit. He smiled, showing her his yellowed teeth, discolored by years of pipe smoke, but full of the same warmth found in the room. He spoke to her in a low and soothing voice.

Why, who is this we have here? He tapped the top of the rabbit with his forefinger. The girl flinched back, pulling the rabbit closer to her chest. Don’t you worry, dear thing. I wouldn’t dare hurt your little friend. What is his name?

Her lips trembled and she stumbled over her own voice a few times before she was able to respond.

Mishter Hoppersh.

What an interesting name. He flashed a glare at the Black Rose, who remained silent and dark as shadow in the back of the room. He could still hear the pat-pat-pat of rain dripping from the man’s clothes onto the floor. And why did he get such an interesting name?

Cush he likesh to hop hop hop.

Martyn chuckled, hoping to make the frightened girl feel more at ease in the strange place where she found herself.

And what is your name?

Teshalyn.

Ahhhh. Well Tessalyn, my name is Martyn. I am your host. And more importantly, I am your friend. And as your friend, it is my job to take care of you and Mister Hoppers while you are here. Now, Mister Hoppers is very cold and wet, so what I’d like to do is put him right over here next to this cozy fire so he can get warm and dry. And while he does that, I’ve got some of my helpers putting together a nice hot bath for you. You’re pretty cold, aren’t you? Tessalyn nodded that she was. So why don’t you let me take him— He reached in slowly and pulled apart the blanket to expose the wet stuffed rabbit and lifted him out of her hands. —and I’m just going to set him right here. Next to the fire, but not too close! Don’t want to get too toasted. There we go.

The door opened and the attendant returned. In his arms were folded clothes, which he handed to the Black Rose. The assassin looked at the items but declined to accept them. Confused, the man set them on the desk along with a fresh blanket. He also informed Martyn that the bath was ready, the tea would be out momentarily, and the food was soon to follow.

Okay, Tessalyn. I want you to listen to me. This man right here in the doorway? His name is Brace. And Brace is going to take you to your bath now. There will be a woman there named Kinna. She will take care of you and make sure you are clean and warm, and then she will bring you right back here to Mister Hoppers. Okay?

Martyn felt a twinge in his heart as he saw the girl’s green eyes begin to well with tears and her chin begin to quiver as she fought back the urge to cry. He ran his hand alongside her head, smoothing her tangled red hair, and brushed her cheek with his thumb as he attempted to soothe her. His mind fired off flashes of faded memory hinting at recognition. He forced them aside.

Hey. It’s okay. It’s all okay. You’re safe here. Nothing will hurt you here. I am your friend and I promise you that everything is going to be okay. And if something goes wrong and you get upset, you can punch me as hard as you want right here. He tapped his chin, barely hidden beneath an unkempt straggle of reddish-brown beard that yielded to invaders of grey. Does that sound fair?

Mishter Hoppersh will shtay right here and wait for me?

Yes, he will, sweet girl. And he’ll be super happy to see you when you return. Now, go with Brace and let the warmth perk you right up. He helped her slide down off the chair and with a hand on her shoulder he guided her toward the door. Brace took her by the hand and led her down the hall. Martyn watched her go, waiting. As if on cue, she looked back over her shoulder. He waved to her as his memories again tried to push through the fog of time, and she waved back. Then he closed the door, nodding to the woman who lingered outside just before the latch caught.

Demons of the Reave! He ran his fingers through the reddish-brown curls that topped his head. You know you are always welcome here. By rights I cannot prevent you from entry given your favor with the queen. But what have you gotten yourself into? Kidnapping? That doesn’t seem your style.

The Black Rose stared, his eyes the color of a sea ravaged by storms, and they seemed to pierce right through Martyn as he waited for some type of response. He stood by the door, his patience wearing thin, when at last the low, smooth voice of his guest rolled through the room like silvered fog.

Kidnapping? No. But would you believe me if I told you it was even worse than that?

Worse than kidnapping? Martyn rolled his neck, the sound of three cracks reminiscent of the popping of the wood in the fire. Worse than kidnapping. What could be worse than kidnapping?

Martyn saw him staring into the flames. It looked as if he were hoping to find answers in the fire, but there was nothing to be found there but flame and ash. All he could do was wait until the man was ready to speak. Though the Black Rose had not removed his mask, he was clearly shaken by whatever it was. Another attendant knocked at the door. Martyn answered and retrieved a tray with tea and a bowl of steaming hot stew. He set it down on the small table, moving the book to a small shelf where other small volumes were collected. He handed the tea to the Black Rose and poured a cup for himself as well.

I came here because I was told you were the only one I could trust. The Black Rose looked at him and Martyn saw truth in those eyes, though the admission surprised him. I know, we should be able to count on all of our brothers, but I fear that holding the favor of the queen, this queen in particular, tends to make more enemies than allies. Would you not agree?

Well— Martyn paused. Many take it personally that she would devote her tasks to just one man instead of utilizing her entire arsenal of Ravens—

You don’t?

What can I say, I’m a softie. But truth is, I can see a justification for why she chose that path. Personally, I think you are playing a dangerous game, one you might not realize you are caught up in. That woman has a hook in you. She controls you. I’ve never trusted her and I don’t recognize her as the queen, no matter if she wears that crown or not. She is an ill omen through and through, and I fear you’ve gotten caught up in something you may well not be able to get out of. So, if she chooses just to use you and keep me out of her nefarious schemes, all the better to my mind.

There was a long pause and Martyn watched the Black Rose, who watched his tea.

You realize your words are treason?

Martyn shrugged. Feel free to do with me what you will. Something tells me you don’t exactly disagree with me or else you would not have come here. But I’ll tell you plainly. Taryn was my queen. And she will always be my queen. And while I don’t have any evidence to justify my belief, I’d wager everything I have that your precious Queen Aleria had something to do with the death of that woman.

The Black Rose did not respond. He continued to look into his tea as if he could see the future in its dark depths. 

What did she get you into?

The Black Rose lifted his eyes and faced Martyn head-on.

The baron of Kirken is eliminated.

Martyn felt the room spin and the light fade and return as the Black Rose spoke. He raised his left hand to his forehead and walked over to the fire, resting his right hand along the mantel to hold himself up. Gorsha! This was unheard of. The queen ordered the murder of a noble of a neighboring country. One not on very friendly terms, at that. He didn’t know what she thought she would gain from this act but he knew for certain what it would bring. He turned his head to see his guest out of the corner of his eyes.

You do realize you just started a war?

Oh, it is worse. He pointed toward the door. That girl? That is Gorsha’s daughter.

"And you brought her here?" Martyn threw his cup into the fire. The splash of the tea into the flames brought it to hiss and spit, the wooden cup already feeling the bite of the angry flames. It matched the ire in Martyn’s chest. He opened his arms as he faced the Black Rose.

Are you trying to bring the entire Nest crashing down around me? If Galisair finds out that you brought Gorsha’s daughter here he will ride with vengeance and he will crush us. This will be his first target in the war to come. All of this and the city above us, gone! What have you done?

The contract was for the entire home. Gorsha. Servants. Guards. This was a statement. Pure and simple.

Oh, it will be heard very loud and very clear.

The cloaked man sighed with what sounded like the weight of the sorrow of many years. Martyn, on the verge of another point to be made, froze, the words dammed in his throat as he watched the cold and calculating Black Rose wither before him as the sound of soft weeping came from behind the mask.

Martyn had known of the Black Rose for many autumns, though from his own recollection he never