The mysteries that dominated Risens’s life to this point had generally been political in nature. Most were barely mysterious at all. At times, utterly predictable. They were the greedy inclinations of those who believed they deservedmore than they had earned. The overwhelming lure of power was a trap that few of their station avoided. Scheming for every shred of an advantage was universal among their class.

  In light of recent events, Risens’s mind had been awakened to mysteries beyond his wildest imagination. A land that, if he understood correctly, could be unlocked and modified by his thoughts alone. He had no idea if the passage, the entrance through the circular stone building, would remain or change with each new visit. It would be something he’d learn soon enough.

  “I assume the Under holds a role in the development of the Barren,” he noted aloud, not a question.

  Mother Raven stood beside the vessel he’d recovered. Leaning forward, she inhaled a deep, audible breath as she smelled the frozen liquid. She tapped on the surface of the ice with her pointed fingernail. The report echoing through the room sounded like the talons of ravens dancing across stone. She frowned, shaking her head before dragging her nail fully across the surface. The high-pitched scrape twisted his stomach into knots. It was disturbingly similar to the cries that emanated from the carrion when they had plunged into the pool.

  “Astute.” The old crone nodded. “Such a wealth of materials is not something to be taken lightly. Though I’ve never set foot into its domain, it is a place not unlike this.”

  Risens stepped forward to peer into the bowl.

  “What you see before you is called Tears of the Under,” she explained. “There is but one bowl in existence that can carry it across the frozen void to the Barren, and only one who controls the means to thaw it.”

  She abandoned the newly formed pedestal, shifting slowly to the stone hearth along the wall.

  “Me?” Risens asked.

  If she heard him, she did a fine job hiding it. “The Raven Talons are chilled. Start a fire, Fledgling.”

  The comment was curious, yet Risens found himself moving without questioning the request. He had no interest in being accused of hesitating at another order.

  His hands fell to the handles of the blades. They were confusingly silent, even though he could feel the anxious energy that trembled in them. True to Mother Raven’s words, the handles felt alarmingly cold, colder than he’d noted even at the heights of the Shial Sliver mountains. Normally, he’d have attributed the sensation to their overwhelming bloodlust, though now, it felt far more subdued and pensive. It was as if they shivered.

  He neared the door when an agitated tone clipped his movements. “Where do you think you’re going, Fledgling? There is a hearth for a reason, is there not?”

  “I only go to collect tinder—” He’d only just started when her words interrupted his explanation.

  “Come here,” she ordered, though a touch of the venom in her voice had eased. “Have you learned nothing of this place yet? You will find that everything you need is here.”

  From where she was perched on the fireplace’s leading step, she motioned her hand to the hearth. He struggled to hide his shock as a neatly arranged pile of sticks and tinder waited patiently for a spark. His curious glance shifted to her as he approached slowly.

  “The Barren is what you will make of it. If you survive long enough, you may one day learn to control it. For now, the effort will be exhausting.” She offered only the slightest hint of a smirk. “You are confused. It seems to be a prevailing feature, one that I hope will soon fade, like the night before the coming day. Before you ask, it was not I who set this here, but you. As I have said, the Barren is yours to command, though I admit, my suggestion may have had some influence on the desired outcome.”

  Risens crossed slowly to the small pile of wood within the hearth. Having been taught the fine art of observation at the cruel hands of his masters, he was certain he’d not have overlooked the detail the first time around. The arrangement was neat, completely incongruent with the tumbledown building he now inhabited. He believed that no others had stepped foot on this floating rock before his feet trampled the wild grasses, yet it appeared as if it had only just been prepared.Carefully, as if it would break the illusion if he touched it, he collected one of the larger limbs from the top of the pile. There was no question that it was real, though it had not been there, nor were there trees to have foraged the material from.

  “Light the fire,” she insisted, her irritation outweighing expectation.

  Returning the stick to the fire, his hands fell to his belt, moving to collect the striker that was thoughtfully built into its design.

  “No, Fledgling. You still do not understand.” She rose quickly, slapping his hand away from the hidden tool. As if the fire had just burst into flame, he felt the heat of her glare as she stopped in front of him. Her stature may have been small, buther presence was considerable. She tapped her finger against his temple. “Use this.”

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  Risens opened his mouth to question the unexpected request and its impossibility of fulfillment. He was no mage. He could not call fire into existence with a mere thought or phrase.

  Instead, he looked to the fireplace and imagined it full of flames. A second later, the explosion of light and searing wash of heat forced him to take a step back as the flame flared into existence.

  “How?” That was all he could muster for words as he stared into the flickering blaze.

  Mother Raven grinned as she appraised the fire, then him.

  “The Barren is yours to command.” She said the words as if she herself were tired of hearing them. “Not unlike a mage can control the elements. The order has long sought to convince others that their gift is far more special, far more substantive than it is. It is merely an understanding, at least on a base level, of where their true power exists.”

  “Here,” he breathed.

  “Ah, you do see,” she crowed.

  Risens held out his hand, letting the warmth of it tickle his palms.

  “Though they do not have access like you,” she continued, “nor understand it as you will, their strength flows from this realm, not the natural world. Insufferable fools, all of them. They claim superiority and mastery over others, though they themselves are clueless as to the true origin of their strength.”

  Risens looked around the hovel, wondering how this place could possibly be the source of all of Windwake’s magic.

  “Look at the fire,” she commanded. “The wood you see being consumed by the greedy flames has texture and weight, though it merely behaves as your expectations have dictated it should. You could have lit the fire independently of the fuel, though its appearance drove this lesson. Think of the ethereal mageLights the magi create. The alchemical essence is merely a weak distillate of that which exists here in abundance.”

  The information was eye-opening. Having no proclivity toward the arcane arts, Risens had given little thought to the realities of the craft. Until the application of his Brands, he’d relied on skills that focused on strength, agility, stealth, and speed. Everything he had achieved, he had worked for. Sweat was measured in buckets. Blood, granted far too frequently. Tears had been reserved for the moments when the watchful eyes and vengeful hands of his master were unable to reach him. He had honed his lethal proficiency through countless hours of rigorous physical training. He was certain that the magi had trained equally, yet the fountain from which their power flowed had been yet another mystery to him.

  “Am I to be a magus?” he whispered. “Is that to be my destiny?”

  The emotionless eyes of Mother Raven hardened into daggers of ice. He felt the glare stab through him before the first sound issued from her throat.

  “Perhaps, one day you will comprehend the necessary skills, should you not manage to find yourself dead first. Do not dare lower yourself to their standards. It is unbecoming of the mantle you bear. You are already far more than any among their number will achieve, than their feeble minds could ever understand. The magi who bury their heads into tomes, who ward against sounds and other ailments, even those who create fire, ice, and lightning, will never be afforded more than a pinch of the power you take for granted. Theirs is finite, grains of sand compared to the limitless desert you have at your disposal.”

  The fire that had ignited her animosity settled, cracking away like the small blaze in the hearth. “They merely sip at the droplets of strength that seep through the cracks between the Barren and their realm, while you can drink to excess.”

  She stepped away, sliding back to the edge of the hearth, perching again on the corner of the leading edge. “If you live long enough, you will come to understand the power at your fingertips.” She whispered now, her attention focused on the fire, not him. “You have experienced firsthand but a taste of the dangers that await you in the Under.”

  “The Carrion.”

  She cocked her head awkwardly to the side, favoring him with a peculiar look. It was almost as if she was perplexed that he knew the name before she had uttered it.

  “It was the Raven Talons,” Risens answered the question etched into her features. “They were afraid. It was they who spoke the name, who warned me of the danger.”

  “They were neither afraid nor warned you.” She cackled. “They have their own desires. They understood what you were ignorant of. They knew their blades would do no harm. Long have they remained dormant. Their hunger holds no equal.”

  Risens’s mind traveled back to the frustrating battle with the carrion and to the blades he wore comfortably on his hips. The overgrown insects had been impervious to any attack until he’d tossed them into the water. Somehow, the innocuous liquid had made them vulnerable to his strikes. Once doused, the Raven Talons slipped through their carapaces with ease.

  “It was the water, the Tears of the Under that granted the power to defeat them,” he added.

  “Yes, and it is the tears that will allow the Talons to continue to do so,” she agreed. “Too much time has passed. The blades need warmth now.”

  Mother Raven ushered him closer to the flames with a curt wave of her hand. He took a moment to inspect the fire as he approached as bidden. He could see no difference between the unnatural blaze that ate away at the wood and any other flame he’d ever crafted from timber and spark. Embers floated casually into the air, disappearing up the chimney. The occasional pop and hiss of steam was everything he’d come to expect from the event. Even the air was flavored by the sweet yet acrid tang of smoke.

  Again, by Mother Raven’s words, it was a feat of his own making, though he had no concept of how.

  Magic, she had said, not unlike the magi.

  Risens had never even the slightest inclination or desire to practice the magical arts. The possibilities and allure at present,however, burned away any previous reservations.

  “Remove the Raven Talons from their sheaths, Fledgling,” she whispered with a surprising reverence.

  He acted with haste, and an unexpected chill ran through him as he drew the steel. They were cold, stinging his hands like ice in his grasp. The expectant, insatiable urge for bloodshed was muted beneath the wicked, deranged giggle that resonated within.

  “It is time.”

  Their screams, which often sounded in unison, now felt as if they were joined by a chorus of thousands of voices howling in near-unison. The glowing symbols that enumerated their duration flashed into view.

  “Plunge them into the flame,” Mother Raven insisted. “Bury them in the ash until they glow red. This is as much a forging for you as for them. Do not break your contact until they are heated through. “Steel yourself, Fledgling. This will not be pleasant.”