Chapter One

Gryphon’s Roost, Caras

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.

Shortly After Midnight

Commander Rabberick Halfar of the Talons stood atop the central keep of Gryphon’s Roost, eyes surveying the castle compound as he had done every night for the past week, restless with anticipation.Unlike those previous nights, however, the anticipation felt by the commander was different was not that of the unknown, but rather the anticipation of what was to come. Those other nights he had wondered if any more assassins would come and try their luck.

Tonight, he knew one had.

Hazel eyes tracked the distant black figure that had appeared on the roof of the west ring some thirty feet below him and to the west of where he stood. As he watched the intruder get ever closer, he could hardly believe he had gone along with this foolhardy plan.

Not that he had had much choice, he reflected; Alfred was his King, after all.

No matter how foolish it was, once the King had made up his mind, one may as well try to stop the sun from rising as change the mind of Alfred DeCarren.

Trying to capture the assassin he could agree with.

Using the King as bait, though?

That was another matter entirely.

As were the King’s orders that none of his soldiers, the men and women who proudly protected him as his Talons, could know of it. Only the commander, the high cleric Herocas, the magus Malute, and the King himself had been in on the plan. Rabberick was certain that both Jayne, his lieutenant in charge of the Gryphon Guard that watched the castle grounds, and Kyarra, Captain of the Winged Knights, had their suspicions. Both had given him odd looks when he ordered them to be on duty this night and the past several, after all, but to their credit neither had openly questioned it.

He almost envied them their ignorance in this matter.

Never in his career had Rabberick ever seen the death of a would-be assassin as anything but positive, and the sooner the better. The previous assassins making it past the wall had been embarrassing enough, in his mind—the last had almost made it into the keep itself! He had sternly reprimanded the soldiers on duty that night himself.

When the commotion in the stables had begun, Rabberick had known immediately what it meant, and had soon after sighted the intruder, impressed in spite of himself that they had made it onto the roof of the keep. Sending not but a quick word to the King and Malute before returning to his post had been difficult. He had felt as if he were betraying his King as he watched the shadowy figure crouch next to the West Tower, clearly planning his next move—and still did. With a word, he could have had a Wing of riders descend upon the intruder, ending this then and there.

But Alfred wanted to talk to them in person.

Madness.

He had not believed his ears when the King and Malute had told them their plan. One of the kitchen servants had been caught passing on information to someone outside the castle, meeting each night at a tavern in the city below. Instead of being thrown in the dungeons, or executed outright for treason, the servant had been released to keep the flow of information streaming. Now, however, Alfred and Malute told him—or her, they had never seen fit to tell Rabberick the servant’s identity—what to pass on, and in return the servant reported what they discovered from their meetings in the city.

After the previous three attempts had failed, it appeared that whomever wanted Alfred dead was getting frustrated. With the impending arrival of the Eno’Kalian delegation on Cedircian soil, and the signing of the treaty itself being only a week away, they were also running out of time.

And so Rabberick had found himself atop the keep every night this week, waiting for the next attempt, which the servant had assured Malute and the King would happen soon, along with their contact’s confidence that this one would not fail.

Rabberick snorted as he thought of that last comment, breath misting out from his nostrils in the cool night air.

None of the others had thought they would fail either, after all, and in spite of them making it further than the commander would have liked, they had one and all been stopped long before they had reached the king. This one would have gone no differently, the commander believed, though he admitted to himself that he had thought he would catch wind of the intruder long before he did. Even after the horses had begun panicking in their stables, it had taken minutes for him to catch sight of the would-be assassin.

They were good, whoever they were’ he would give them that much.

The figure passed out of his line of sight, crossing from the magus’ tower to the foot of the central keep on which he stood. Rabberick figured he would climb the side and enter through one of the windows, making their way to the King’s chambers from within. The commander fought the urge to lean over and look; he could not let the intruder know he had been spotted, after all. Instead, he shifted his position, putting his weight on his left foot instead of his right, crossing his arms before his broad chest to warm his cool hands beneath his arms. He had posted guards outside the Kings chambers, after all, and at the foot of every stairway; the intruder would be seen long before he reached the King. It was the one concession the King had made: so long as Alfred could talk to the assassin, Rabberick could have guards posted.

So why did Rabberic feel so nervous?

He glanced across to the balcony that marked the top floor of the West Tower, catching a glimpse of a robed figure disappearing within.

Malute.

The magus would be heading for the King’s chambers, and Rabberick decided it was past time to do the same. Before he had even begun to turn to do just that, the piercing cry of a gryphon cut through the night, echoing off the marble around him. The commander looked to the sky in time to watch as one of the Gryphon Knights swooped low between the keep and the tower. For a moment, he thought the intruder had been sighted, and, in spite of how it would ruin the King’s plan, hoped it was so.

But no, he realized a heartbeat later as the gryphon kept going, bronze feathers shimmering in the moonlight as it passed through the gap, getting lower and lower. They had not spotted the intruder, but were instead heading for the stables. The gryphon landed on the cobbles near where the crowd of servants and soldiers had gathered, and the rider dismounted, reaching to remove their tufted helm. He felt a shimmer of pride as he saw the short cut red hair atop the knights head as she strode authoritatively to the crowd, watching as they parted before her to let her get to the front.

Kyarra, his daughter.

Some had viewed her appointment as Captain of the Winged Knights as nothing more than nepotism, a father appointing his only child to a position of power. But any who had trained with her and fought beside her knew that he had been her harshest critic. He had vehemently opposed her joining the Talons, after all, not wanting her to be in harms way. It had taken months of arguing for her to convince him otherwise, and even after she had joined their ranks, he had taken every opportunity to get her to change her mind. Neither words nor the increasingly difficult challenges he had thrown her way had even begun to change her mind.

And in spite of himself, he was proud of all she had done. She had overcome every obstacle he and others had put in her way to earn command of the Winged Knights, excelling as both a soldier and as a gryphon rider, the latter being something he had never been able to do. It had taken him long enough to get used to looking down to the River Elan from the top of the castle, down the 200 foot sheer cliff face to the rushing waters below, without getting lightheaded. No, he could not fathom becoming one of the Winged Knights, and in spite of all the risks that position entailed, he had nothing but pride for his daughter.

The commander watched as she took charge of the situation at the stables.

* * *

Kyarra removed her winged helm, forged in the shape of a gryphon’s head, complete with etched feathers, the purple plumes coming off either “wing” denoting her rank as captain, and tucked it under one arms as she strode determinedly to the crowd of servants and soldiers that had gathered near the stables. The soles of her black leather boots made muted thumps on the cobbles, turning heads her way as she drew nearer. Eyes hastily diverting at the scowl on the red haired womans face, servants and soldiers alike hurried out of her way, the latter slamming fists to chest in hasty salute.

She was not, it was clear to all around her, in a good mood.

Minutes before, she had been quietly tending to Swiftwing, her gryphon mount, in the Nest, the nesting grounds in the cliffs below the castle, wondering why it had been so important she was on duty not only this night, but the ones previous as well. She knew better than to question the commander, at least where others could overhear, and he had not given her a chance to talk in private since issuing the orders those days before. And that rankled her. He had never hesitated to explain orders before, and certainly he had never avoided her like this—save for when he had been working against her appointment to the knights, but that was long past.

Clearly he expected something to happen, and with the multiple attempted assassinations on the King in the last month, it was obvious what that was.

So she could understand why he wanted her present at night, but why ground her?

The other half of the orders, the part she took issue with, was that none of her riders be airborne after dusk. Which made no sense. Gryphons had sharper eyes than any of the humans, after all. So would they not benefit from having them flying above the castle grounds?

It did not make sense to her, and thinking about it irritated her, so she had thrown herself into caring for her mount, brushing his feathers and scratching behind his head plumes. Swiftwing’s golden eyes had almost been closed as her fingers worked on the soft spot behind his ears when his bronze feathered head had shot suddenly up, startling her momentarily.

She had recovered almost immediately, having been around gryphons—and Swiftwing, in particular—long enough to realize when something had caught their attention. Deciding quickly, knowing that it meant disobeying her father’s orders, Kyarra had quickly grabbed her saddle from a hook on the wall nearby, and thrown it over her beloved mount, cinching it tight in front of the avian’s wings and forelegs and behind the beings, across his strong chest in an “x” to stop it moving side to side.

Quickly double checking the bindings, she had grabbed her spear and donned her helm, which she had removed to tend to her mount, and, ignoring the cries of the neighbouring gryphons and knights, had kicked Swiftwing’s chest with her heel, signaling him to take off. Talons scraping the stone of the floor, the gryphon had leaped and, wings spreading wide to either side, shot forward, out of the Nest and into the night air over the shimmering blue waters of the river below.

Kyarra had not had to direct her mount, and so had been able to focus on scanning the castle as Swiftwing quickly turned to fly back towards and over the Roost. As soon as they had exited the Nest, her ears had picked up what had so alerted her mount: horses screaming in alarm and protest, and answering shouts. So, the stables then.

Swiftwing had let out a piercing cry as they passed over the West Wing of the castle, between the keep and the West Tower, and she had known that he had spotted something.

Or someone, she had realized as she noted the dark figure crouching in the shadow of the keep, clearly trying to make themselves as small as possible as Swiftwing flew overhead.

She had begun pulling the reigns to circle the gryphon around when she had noted something else, another figure, this one standing atop the keep. Her father, standing almost directly above where the intruder cowered against the marble wall of the building. A glance to the tower had shown her that the magus, too, was on his balcony, and watching events, confirming to her that her father’s orders had been part of a larger plan, one she was unaware of.

Trusting in her father, fighting her instincts to go after the intruder, she had instead directed Swiftwing to land near the stables, where she had seen a crowd gathered around a small form on the ground. She had been careful to land near the large red oaks some fifty paces away from the stables. Though the horses were used to the presence of the gryphons, due to their near constant presence in the skies over the castle, she had not wanted to risk spooking them once again, agitated as they were. From the looks of it, the stablemaster and the stablehands had managed to quiet most of the beasts, and she had not wanted to undo their efforts.

Before Swiftwing’s talons had settled fully on the flagstones of the courtyard, she had thrown one leg over the gryphon’s back so she was sitting side saddle, and as soon as he had come to a stop, she was sliding to the ground, one hand reaching to unclasp the strap that held her helm in place as she began marching towards the crowd.

She ignored the salutes and bows of the soldiers and servants as they moved out of her way, her attention on the scene before them. A boy—one of the stablehands, she assumed—dressed in a dirty tunic and breeches and looking to be no more than twelve, lay on the ground in the pen in front of the crowd. Blood stained the tunic, and he looked to be unconscious as a large man with black hair and a long, bushy black beard knelt over him, trying unsuccessfully to rouse him. The boy’s face, she saw, was bloody as well, his nose looking to be broken.

“What happened, Master Raim?” she asked without preamble as she climbed between the rails of the fence, shoving aside the sympathy the boys broken face elicited within her.

The black haired man looked up from the boy, blinking back tears as he focused his dark on eyes on the captain. It took him a moment to recognize her, and when he did, he stood from the ground, brushing dirt off his knees as he did—a gesture that was futile, the captain mused, noting the stains on the mans trousers.

“I don’t know what spooked ‘em, sir,” Estram Raim, the Stablemaster of Gryphon’s Roost, said in his gravely voice. The short, stocky man ran a hand through his beard as he continued, “Me an’ the lads were inside, ye see, and suddenly every durned horse were running mad.”

“Aye, musta been a rabbit or summat,” a tall, blond stable hand, standing behind Raim, chimed in.

“Nah, yer mad! Weren’t no rabbit,” a second man replied, looking and sounding exactly like the first. He gave the first man a shove, “They’re used to them things, ain’t they?” He pointed behind Kyarra, to Swiftwing, who had remained where she had left him in the shadow of the towering oak, watching the scene with golden eyes.

“But they ain’t rabbits!”

“They’re bigger than rabbits, ye fool! If they don’t spook ‘em, a rabbit won’t,” the second stablehand said matter-of-factly, crossing his muscled arms in front of him.

“Shut it, both of ye!” Estram Raim angrily interjected, stopping the forthcoming argument from the first man before he could begin to speak. He glared at one, than the other, “Go and tend to the horses.”

Faces falling, both men moved off as ordered. As they went, Kyarra clearly heard the argument begin again, though in quieter tones. Raim sighed, turning his attention once more to the child on the ground between him and the captain.

“What happened?” she asked again, eyes on the departing stablehands. Brothers? They must be.

“We was inside, like I said,” Raim met her eyes. “When the horses started going mad, we rushed out to calm ‘em, ye see. They was runnin’ everywhere, and Jennep was tryin’ to calm one, and got kicked in the head for his trouble. Poor lad. Think his arm’s broke, too.”

She saw that one arm looked as if it were bent between the hand and the elbow, and did not disagree with the assessment.

“We didn’t want to move ‘im,” the stablemaster went on, “In case he were hurt more, ye see.”

Kyarra nodded, “Have you sent for a healer?”

“Were just about to when yerself arrived.”

The captain swung about and, pointing to the nearest soldier, said, “Get him a healer.” The soldier saluted and hurried off towards the temple, the crowd parting to let him pass without hindrance. She made to leave, bu stopped as Estram spoke from behind.

“They were right, ye know.”

“Who?” the captain turned her head to eye the stablemaster.

“Ketch and Birch. Them two may not be the smartest, but they know horses, they do. T’weren’t no rabbit that spooked ‘em, Cap’n.”

Pursing her lips, Kyarra jerked her head in a sharp nod and exited the pen, once mroe climbing between the top two rails of the fence.

“Back to your posts, all of you!” she ordered sharply to the watching crowd as, without stopping to see if her command had been heeded, trusting it would, she strode back to where Swiftwing waited.

The gryphon, sensing her mood as she approached, knelt on the ground, leaning towards her as she swung herself into the saddle once again, the stablemaster’s parting words repeating in her head. He was right, she knew, thinking of the figure on the roof, of her father and the magus watching it all from above. She kicked Swiftwing again, hugging close to him as the avian creature beat his wings and took off once again, one thought in her mind.

It had certainly been no rabbit.

* * *

Rabberick watched a moment longer as Kyarra exchanged words with the men crouching over a small body on the ground, before pointing to the temple cross the courtyard. One of the soldiers in the watching crowd saluted and sprinted the direction she indicated, no doubt going for a healer.

Satisfied she had the matter well in hand, and knowing he had to focus on his own mission this night, Rabberick once again turned from the crenelations and began heading for the stairs that lead down into the keep.

“Sir?”

He stopped to regard the two soldiers closest to him, both of whom were looking at him.

“Continue your watch. If you see anything amiss, send word immediately. I’ll be below,” he said brusquely, continuing on after a heartbeat. He heard the clank of gauntleted hands thumping against plated chests as they saluted.

“Do you think it has to do with the stables?” he heard one guard ask the other as he opened the oaken door to the stairs.

“Dunno… What do you think happened down there?” the other asked in reply.

“Dunno,” the first said, “but if it were important, he would have told us.”

“I suppose… but did you see the way he was fidgeting? He was nervous, he was.”

“Your imagining things,” the first soldier admonished before reiterating, “If something were going on, he would have told us.”

“Yeah—“

The second soldiers response was cut off as the wooden portal closed behind the commander with a thud, the thick door blocking all sound from without. He paused a moment and let out a sigh. He did not like deceiving his soldiers, even by omission. They were effective because they knew what was going on at all times.

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But Alfred had commanded it, and he was King.

Reminding himself of that, and consoling himself with the knowledge that his soldiers had still known something was going on, he began making his way down the first flight of stairs. As he reached the first landing, he heard an echoing metallic clatter from below, and a voice cried out a single word that had his heart pounding and set him to running.

“Murder!”

* * *

“Murder!”

The horrible word echoed in the magus’ head as he hurried up the marble stairs, hiking his robes up to take them two at a time.

He had known this was a terrible plan.

Like the commander, Malute had argued long and hard against Alfred’s idea, pointing out all the ways it could go awry. The King had remained undeterred, as stubborn and obstinate as ever. Though Malute usually respected those traits in his King, and knew that they served both him and the kingdom well, he had not grown any more fond of this uncharacteristically foolhardy endeavor.

As soon as he had heard the first screams from the horses, he had known it to be a distraction and had embraced the vitarus. Probing outwards with his senses, he had found the intruder quickly enough, and been thoroughly surprised by what he had felt—or rather, what he had not felt.

The vita had been present within the man—Malute had sensed that the intruder was indeed male—as it was in all living creatures, but the intruder’s vita had felt lessened, almost corrupted somehow. There was almost an absence where the intruder’s life-force should have been, and he was not sure what to make of that. Malute did not like things he did not understand, and liked them even less when it concerned the safety of the King. Worse, in this instance, was that niggling feeling that he should know that sensation, as if it were something he had encountered before.

He had gone to the balcony of his chambers at the top of the West Tower, and peered down in time to watch the intruder begin his ascent of the outside of the keep. The magu had noted Rabberick’s position on the roof opposite him, likewise aware of the intruder. Something about what he had felt had still nagged at him, and so he had begun making his way to the King’s chambers, pausing only to grab his blackened staff from it’s place by the door. He had walked at a brisk pace, hurrying, but not wanting to appear as if he was rushing, lest someone see him and think something was amiss. Appearances were important, after all.

Purple silk robes swishing about his feet, he had just crossed the bridge onto the fourth floor of the main keep when he had heard that damnable shout echoing down the hall from the floor above. Cursing the King once again for insisting on this insane plan of his with every step, the magus found himself regretting not arguing the point more. The King had been the one who had taken in the cast out magus as a child, after all. And just like then, when his adviser’s had urged the King to cast him out, Alfred had remained steadfast in his determination.

No, hanging the King’s mind had never been easy to change once it was made up. Three assassination attempts and a number of protests by nobles and commoners alike had not swayed his mind on the treaty with Eno’Kalia, after all. Not that Malute disagreed on that particular point; not only had Alfred had the magus’ full support on that from the beginning, but it had been Malute who had begun the negotiations with island nation. The treaty was long overdue, he fervently believed, and he was proud to stand beside Alfred for the entire overly long process.

But this plan… He had not come even close to agreeing with it.

Now he found himself rushing up the stairs, passing confused and scared servants running every which way in the wake of the shout, joining in a crowd of guards all heading towards the source of the cry in a cacophony of clanking plate. As they reached the top of the stairs, the magus spun to face the Talons coming behind.

“Watch the stairs. No one comes up or leaves until you are told otherwise,” he ordered the group of three men and two women, half expecting protests.

To their credit, they all saluted and spun to form a line across the stairs, spears and halberds held horizontally in front of them to block access. Impressed in spite of himself, Malute made a mental note of their faces so he could make sure they received commendations from Rabberick.

For soldiers, he mused, they listen well.

Certain the Talons would keep the growing crowd of curious servants from coming any further, Malute turned in time to see Rabberick disappear through the door of the King’s chambers, stepping over a body that lay just outside. The magus felt relief upon seeing the torchlight reflected from the gleaming silver armour the body wore. The King would not have been wearing armour at this hour, after all.

His relief proved short lived, however, as he heard a strangled voice he barely recognized as belonging to the commander cry out, “My King!”

* * *

Rabberick stared in horror at the scene before him, hardly believing what he was seeing, despite having stepped over the body of one of his Talons to enter the room.

Alfred DeCarren lay on the floor near the center of the room, trembling hands grasping his stomach, body curling forward, his crimson face a mask of anguish. He thought he could see faint wisps of smoke coming from between the King’s fingers, but dismissed it as a trick of the torchlight that lit the room. Blood stained his robe and fingers, and had pooled on the stone floor about him.

He heard a thud to the right, and saw that the twin doors to the King’s bedroom were closed. With Alfred here in his solar, at least one of the wooden doors should have been open. Before he could cross to the closed doors, a faint moan from the King drew his attention back to the monarch.

Rabberick hesitated, torn between seeing to his King or going after the assailant who had, evidently, fled into the King’s bedchamber.

A gasp from behind him told him that someone else had entered the room, making his mind up for him.

“Tend to the King,” he commanded over his shoulder, not bothering to check who it was as he drew his short sword and crossed to the closed doors.

The clacking of hard soled boots on the stone floor heralded the arrival of more Talons behind him as he reached the wooden portals. Though he knew they would not open, he reached out his free hand and pushed on the ornately carved door anyways.

It did not budge.

“It’s barred!” he called to the growing number of guards in the room behind him, putting his shoulder against the door and trying once again to force it open.

“Get an axe!” someone behind ordered; he thought he recognized the voice as Closden’s.

“No, a ram,” another voice—Jansen, perhaps—put in.

“That’ll take too long,” Closden protested.

Rabberick agreed, and was about to call for an axe to start battering the door himself when a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the room, silencing the Talons within.

“Fools. Stand aside.”

Recognizing the voice as that of Malute, Rabberick did not hesitate, quickly stepping to the side and turning away from the door, using his body to shield himself from the blast he knew to be forthcoming. He had known the magus long enough to anticipate what would come next. Malute was not known for his patience at the best of times, and with their King lying injured on the floor, the magus would have even less than usual.

Rabberick closed his eyes, braced himself, and waited.

* * *

“My King!”

The cry cut through the sandy haired man’s thoughts, putting an end to his indecisiveness as he waited in the empty room across the hall from the King’s solar. He had been debating whether he should check on the situation after hearing a metallic clang from outside the closed door a minute earlier. He had dearly wanted to, but he had been told in no uncertain terms by King Alfred, Malute, and Rabberick each that he was to stay out of the way, and only come if and when they sent for him. He had had to argue hard enough to be included, even peripherally, in tonights escapade, and did not want any of them, especially the King, to regret that choice.

The utter shock and pain evident in that shout, so distorted by anguish and anger that he barely recognized it as the commander’s, made the decision for him. He had heard that same tone many times from patients as he tended to them, and he knew what it meant.

With a nod to the two acolytes who waited with him, High Priest Herocas Enverson stood from the bed upon which he had sat, smoothing his gold fringed red robes. With a glance to ensure one of his followers grabbed the medical supplies they had brought with them, he opened the door to the hallway. Stepping out of the room, his eyes immediately fixed on the body that lay halfway out of the King’s door; he let out a soft sigh.

It seemed they would be needed after all.

Grateful he had won the argument to be nearby the past several nights, Herocas took long strides towards the doorway. He had noted almost immediately that the armoured body was not that of the King, and relief and guilt flooded through him; relief that it was not the King, and guilt that one of the guards posted to watch the King had seemingly met their end.

As he began instructing one of his acolytes to check on the fallen Talon, he felt a surge of energy ahead of him.

Malute?

Moments later, a loud explosion sounded from the King’s chambers.

* * *

The magus had assessed the situation as soon as he had entered the King’s solarium.

Clearly, Alfred’s plan had gone terrible awry.

Alfred was down, blood seeping through his fingers as he lay curled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, two of Rabberick’s Talons kneeling to tend to him. Across the room and to the side, Rabberick stood against the door to the King’s bedchamber, trying futilely to shove it open.

Seeing that the King was being seen to, and knowing that Rabberick would not have left his side without good reason, Malute followed the commander’s lead and, as Rabberick called for an axe, focused on the closed, undoubtedly barred, doors. No doubt the assassin was even then preparing to make good his escape through the King’s window.

An axe would take too long.

“Fools. Stand aside,” he ordered curtly, drawing vita from the sapphire embedded at the top of his twisted black staff.

The temperature in the room around him dropped as he pulled the heat from it, rolling his hand as the gathered energy produced a flame within it. Noting that Rabberick had moved aside, as had the other Talons in the room, leaving him a clear line to the bedchamber doors, he pointed a bony finger their direction.

A bolt of fire shot shot in the direction he pointed, slamming into the thick wooden doors. The doors seemed to simply disappear in a concussive blast of flame and smoke. Heavy timbers clattered off the floor and walls of the adjoining room, hidden from sight momentarily as the thick smoke hung in the air. Malute stared in grim satisfaction to where the doors had once stood, noting the hinges still attached to the wall on either side of the opening. He took a deep breath and began to draw more vita into himself—

—and immediately felt someone else trying to wrest control of it from him.

The assassin.

Caught off his guard by this unanticipated action by the intruder, the magus felt his control of the vitarus slipping from his grasp. Malute’s mind whirled as he fought to keep control, trying to sort through the implications.

The assassin knew how to use the vita!

And suddenly the void he had felt in the intruder earlier made sense. It had been a long time since he had last felt the emptiness of a magus who had lost the ability to touch and wield the vitarus, but as he fought against the subversion of his vita, he knew that was what he had felt. The assassin was in fact a former mage.

And a well trained one, at that, seeing as how they seemed to be winning the battle for the vita.

Hands white on his staff, Malute felt sweat beading on his brow.

How could someone who had lost the ability still be so strong?

Malute felt his control slipping even more, and gritted his teeth, denial rising inside of him. This could not be happening, not to him. He would not let it.

He began to sever the draw from his staff, trying to cut off the flow of the vita.

And immediately realized his mistake as he felt the other man wrest his remaining reserves from him in his moment of distraction. A heartbeat later, he felt a surge of power from the next room, even as two Talons rushed past him and and coughing Rabberick, heading for the blasted doorway.

Before he could cry out a warning, the two guards were knocked down by an invisible wave as the assassin conjured a blast of air, pushing the remaining smoke further into the King’s solar, clearing the air in the door.

The air got slightly cooler as he heard the shriek of a gryphon from within the bedchamber. That shriek turned into a cry of anger as Malute felt the assassin cast a spell similar to his own firebolt. Recovering from the shock of having his power stolen from him, the magus once more drew the vita around himself, and joined a red-faced Rabberick and a group of Talons as they ran through the blasted door.

Just in time to see the black clad assassin leap through the window.

* * *

Herocas put an arm out to stop his acolytes as the echoes from the explosion began to fade.

Ahead, he felt more surges of power.

The first was followed by grunts of pain, and the clanging of metal hitting stone. Bestial shrieks preceded and followed the next. The last he felt was larger than the others—and remained. Someone was holding onto the vita.

After a few heartbeats of relative silence, he lowered his arm and hurried the rest of the way to the room’s doorway, the slippers of the acolytes slapping on the floor as they followed in his wake. Glancing down as he stepped over the guard lying in the doorway, he noted the hilt of a knife jutting from the poor man’s throat. Careful to avoid the growing pool of crimson around the fallen guard, he stepped into the room.

To his right, towards the blasted remains of the doors that lead to the King’s bedchamber, two more Talons were just starting to pick themselves off the floor, looking more than a little dazed. One winced as he gingerly touched the back of his head, reaching with his other hand for the silver helm that lay nearby. The doors beyond were simply gone, with only splintered fragments of the thick wooden planks being held up by singed iron hinges. A smoky haze filled the room, filling his nostrils with the scent of burnt wood. From the room beyond, the angry cries of a gryphon sounded, and he felt more surges of power.

Ignoring both the cries and the vita, trusting that Malute had the situation in hand, his gaze shifted to the left side of the room, to where another Talon crouched over the King, and his heart lurched.

“Aegoth have mercy,” he breathed, taking a steadying breath.

There was so much blood. Too much, he feared.

“Valencia, make sure there is nothing we can do for him,” he said over his shoulder, motioning to the man he had stepped over. He hesitated before continuing, considering the situation, “If he has indeed passed, do not administer last rights, we will see to that later. Orneth, see to those two,” the priest gestured to the Talons picking themselves up off the floor. “Come help me with the King once you are done.”

Not waiting for a response from either acolyte, trusting them to follow his commands, the High Priest strode quickly to where the King lay. He dropped to his knees beside his friend, not at all concerned about the blood that began seeping into his robes as he did. The Talon looked up at him across the King’s body, hope replacing fear in his eyes as he recognized the High priest. Herocas quickly dropped his gaze to the King, not wanting the soldier to see his lack of surety.

From the amount of blood alone, it was clear the King was in bad state.

Herocas did a quick scan of Alfred’s body, noting immediately the large knife wound to the abdomen, but not seeing any secondary wounds. It was hard for the priest to see anything with the way the King had curled his body, arms crossing across his chest, knees brought up as far as he could, his face a mask of agony.

“Help me lay him flat,” he instructed the soldier, “I need a better view of the wound.”

At his words, the Talon grabbed the King’s shoulders and began rolling the crimson skinned man towards him, eliciting a gasp of pain from the King. The soldier stopped the movement, looking askance at the priest.

“My King… Alfred,” the pries said in a soft voice, reaching out a hand to touch the King’s shoulder; Alfred opened one eye, fixing it on the priest, “I need to be able to see the wound.”

Alfred moaned and closed his eyes, and Herocas thought the King had nodded his understanding, though with the way his body was shaking it was hard to tell for certain. Herocas met the Talon’s eyes once more, and nodded.

The commander once again grabbed hold of the King’s shoulders, rolling the monarch towards him. Herocas pulled gently on his knees, pulling them away from the King’s chest. Alfred let out a low moan at the movement, his jaw clenching, tendons sticking out of his neck, but he did not fight it, letting the two men slowly move him until his back and feet were flat on the ground.

A bloody hand grabbed hold of each foot, and Herocas glanced up to see Valencia kneeling at the King’s feet. He met her eyes, arching a brow in silent question; the brunette woman shook her head slightly, red rimmed eyes brimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling slightly. He lowered his eyes with a slight nod, not surprised; the man had taken a knife to the neck, after all.

He would make sure Alfred did not follow his guard into death.

The priest stretched a slightly trembling hand out to grasp one of the King’s, gently moving it aside so the blood stained fabric was more visible. He lifted the sodden fabric so he could see the grisly wound underneath.

The High Priest inhaled sharply.

* * *

It had certainly not been a rabbit that had spooked the horses.

As Swiftwing took to the air once more, wings thrumming loudly to either side of her, Kyarra saw in her minds eye the shadowy figure on the roof of the castle, and knew with complete certainty that it was they who had caused the disruption at the stables.

What the captain could not figure out, however, is why Rabberick would not have moved to intercept the intruder. It was clear to her that from his position atop the keep, the commander would have had no issue spotting the intruder, especially in the wake of the disturbance down below. No, something did not add up, and she did not like feeling like she did not have all the facts.

She could only think of one way to get the answers she needed.

Nudging the gryphon’s side with one heel, she directed Swiftwing towards the keep as the winged creature continued to climb into the night sky. The gryphon began a slow turn, swinging around the line of old oak trees near the centre of the castle’s courtyard, giving the long reaching limbs of the strong trees a wide berth as he followed his rider’s directions. As her eyes scanned the marble edifice that rose in front of her, searching for the shadowy figure in the faint light of the cloudy night, movement in one of the windows of the keeps upper floor caught her eye.

The King’s chambers.

Heart beating fast, she urged Swiftwing on to greater speeds, reaching up and flicking the glass visor of her helm down over her eyes even as the wind began drying them as the gryphon, beating his wings furiously, sped towards the keep. A heartbeat later, her beloved mount let out a piercing cry, and she knew that he had seen the movement inside as well.

A bright flash emanated suddenly from two of the windows she knew to be the King’s solarium, followed by a large crash. Of his own accord, as Kyarra blinked away the bright light, Swiftwing made not for those windows, but one adjacent to them, which lead to the King’s bedchamber. Before she could do more than shout in protest, the gryphon had stuck his head in through the window, screeching loudly as his talons scrabbled at the stone of the wall, sending flecks of white stone flying as he sought purchase. Hugging the beast tighter, Kyarra did her best to see past the furiously beating wings to get a glimpse inside the dark room.

Between beats of Swiftwing’s wings, she was just able to make out a figure inside, arm seemingly extended before him.

In the next instant, a bolt of fire shot from the figures hand, straight for her beloved mount.

Kyarra jerked the reins back, shouting as she did, but it was too late. The flaming missile struck him directly between his golden eyes; Kyarra caught the odour of singed feathers even as she noted the wisps of smoke rising from the blackened patch. Swiftwing jerked his head back reflexively, letting out another piercing screech—one that seemed more anger than pain, Kyarra noted with relief.

Eyes on the blackened patch marring the gryphon’s bronze plumage, Kyarra noted movement within the room, and shifted her attention back just as a human form leaped through the window into the night air.

Swiftwing saw them too, she realized as talons reached for the intruder, missing by a hair’s breadth.

She felt a slight jolt beneath her as Swiftwing seemed to shudder, and saw the intruder falling straight down, body arrow straight, and she realized they must have kicked off Swiftwing to redirect their momentum.

But why?

All that would gain them was a faster death on the red slate roof below.

Unless…

Even as the thought occurred to her, she saw the assassin reach a hand out in front of him, wavign it in a wide circle before him.

He was trying to cast another spell.

“Catch him, Swiftwing!” she cried, kicking her heels into the gryphon’s flanks and gripping the horn of the saddle tight in anticipation of the coming dive.

Swifting let out yet another screech as he tucked his wings in close to his body, head and neck leaning forward to point directly at the falling intruder. Even with her visor, Kyarra had to squint to stay focused on the falling form ahead of them as the air pushed around the glass cover and began drying her eyes. Just a few more seconds and Swiftwing would have him.

The gryphon extended his talon’s ahead of him as the red slate of the roof filled her vision.

A fog appeared before the figure, several feet above the roof, swirling as it expanded outwards.

“No!”

The denial was torn from her throat without thought as she watched the intruder fall through the mist, disappearing faster than they would have in any natural fog.

Swiftwing’s talons caught nothing but air as the mist dissipated as fast as it had appeared; the gryphon let out a cry of frustration, as if mimicking his rider’s of a moment earlier.

No sign of the intruder remained.

The gryphon unfurled his wings, spreading them wide to catch the air and beat them hard to stop from crashing into the roof. She watched the tiles speed past mere inches from the breast of the gryphon, trusting in him to do what was needed to keep them both safe.

She twisted back in the saddle to look behind them, to where the misty portal had been.

Nothing remained.

They had failed.

She let Swiftwing fly for a few more heartbeats as she gathered her thoughts. Then it struck her: her father had been watching the intruder .He had watched as this assassin had made their way to the King’s chambers.

Watched, and done nothing to stop them.

Heeling the gryphon, she directed him back to the keep, to the roof where she had seen her father watching earlier, one thought prominent in the confused captain’s mind, simple yet potentially damning.

The commander—her father, a man staunchly loyal to the throne and the King who sat atop it—had known and done nothing to stop the events of this night. Either he was complicit, or… what alternative was there?

Why, Father?

There had to be a logical explanation. She knew that, in her heart. So she would talk to him, and demand answers. Damn the chain of command and propriety.

Her eyes narrowed as Swiftwing began his descent to the keep; Talons scrambled to get out of the gryphon’s path.

Yes, she would get answers.

After she ensured the King's safety.