Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  Gray rose higher from his seated posture but grunted in pain. I guess Silveroot isn’t a cure-all. “What were you doing in the woods when we ran into you?” he asked.

  “Hunting,” she replied, thinly.

  “But what were you hunting?”

  “Ah, a much better question. I was hunting a rare creature that resides only in Nodes. That darkness you saved us from, those creatures are called Darkwalkers. They require the spark to kill, a lot of it—”

  He interrupted her, “But Darius said you killed one.”

  “Or,” she continued, “Someone who knows exactly where to hit it. All creatures have a weak spot, even Darkwalkers. A quick cut or two to the area near where their heart should be sends them up in flames.”

  “That doesn’t sound so hard.”

  “One touch from a Darkwalker is death. They don’t even need to be strong or brutally savage, though they are. They hold a plague that feeds off the spark inside of us all.”

  “But what if we don’t have the spark?”

  She sniffed. “All beings have the spark. The only difference between someone like me and a Reaver is one can more easily manifest the spark, and some are simply stronger than others.”

  Absently, Gray scratched his arm realizing it was healing already. As he listened to the nearby gurgling brook, he remembered something and looked at his bandaged arm. “That thing… it touched me, so how am I not dead?”

  Faye rocked back. “I… have no idea,” she admitted, eyeing him like a puzzle. “You should have been dead long ago.” Perhaps it’s because I have the flow and not the spark, he wondered, but he wouldn’t voice his secrets unless he had to. Still, it was something to remember. Despite sitting, he felt suddenly dizzy and put a hand to a nearby root for balance. “Famished?” Faye asked.

  “Now that you mention it…”

  Pulling out a strange fruit from her bag, Faye threw it to him. “Eat.”

  Hesitantly, he bit into the strange purple flesh, teeth jarring from the crunch. At least it was tasty, and he was starving. Gray shook his head, realizing he’d gotten sidetracked. “You said you were hunting a rare creature. Why, and what was it?”

  “It’s called a Phox.”

  “Then what was that child’s voice?” he asked skeptically.

  “It was the beast I am hunting. They can disguise themselves with sounds and even distort their image. They are truly cunning beasts,” she said and sniffed. “I nearly had it too, before your fool friend let it get away. Phoxes are cleverer than you or I, not to mention faster and stronger.” She paused as if thinking, putting a finger to her soft lips. “Yes… That makes sense. Perhaps it sensed your presence and pulled you toward me with that little trick, altering its voice so it could get away.”

  Gray had trouble hiding a smirk. “Sounds like you’re outmatched.”

  Faye didn’t rise to his provocation. She shrugged, chainmail rustling lightly. “Alone, they are dangerous—very—but not without weaknesses. Phoxes are meant to hunt in packs. Against a pack, I would have no chance. Death would be certain. This, however, is the very last wild one of its kind, so there is nothing to fear.”

  “Why would you want to hunt the last of its kind?” he said, suddenly angry.

  “I said it is the last wild one. There are some who keep Phoxes as prizes, but they are uncontrollable.”

  “And this one?”

  “If I’m right, their pack leader. Their Matriarch… a female,” she said and snorted, “Which of course, just happens to be the smarter and faster of the two genders, as usual.”

  “What’s so special about Phoxes anyway?” he asked around a mouthful of fruit.

  “Phoxes have one great ability above all others. A Darkwalker’s touch has no affect on them, and they can sense their presence. They are the natural predator of those abominations, and they are nearly all but extinct.”

  “You plan to breed them,” he said in realization.

  Her full, red lips twisted in an amused smile. “Enough questions.”

  He could tell he had pushed too far into that subject. “No, at least tell me what a Node is. What is this place?”

  “Farhaven is in danger. The magical creatures of this land aren’t safe. Haven’t you wondered why you haven’t seen much in the way of life on your way here? Something dark is brewing, taking over the lands.”

  “The Darkwalkers?”

  “They are just a sign of it—a mere byproduct but not the root of evil. Nodes are sanctuaries for the good creatures of this land, intended to keep them safe.” She looked around and picked up a patch of glowing green moss. She ran her thumb across its bumpy surface and where her finger grazed it turned scarlet as if sensing the danger in Faye’s words. “That is why this place changes daily. When we wake tomorrow, it will be gone. And it’s never the same twice. It responds to good magic, that way creatures of light can find it, but beasts like the Darkwalkers cannot. That is why the last wild Phox flees from Node to Node.”

  Gray neglected to retort that the Darkwalkers had found the sanctuary, but the rest of it did seem to add up. “That makes sense,” he said, realizing that’s the sensation he’d felt: fleeting safety. He continued to twiddle the blade of grass then looked up with a breath, “That’s all I wanted to know, aside from one last question.” With his other hand, he idly touched Morrowil’s hilt that sat in his lap for reassurance, keeping positive thoughts in his mind’s eye.

  Faye waited uncertainly. “Why do I have a feeling all those questions were just leading up to this one?”

  “Join us,” Gray said.

  She laughed loudly. Louder than he’d expected, and birds flew from the nearby trees, finding other shelter. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “The others hate me,” she replied, brows scrunching as if he were mad. “Why do you want me around? And it’s not just for safety—you’re too blindingly stubborn just for that reason.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “I wasn’t entirely truthful.”

  “Then tell me now. The whole truth, and I might just do it.”

  “I…” He stared into her light brown eyes, framed by red curls. She was beautiful. No, how could he possibly think that? As he held her gaze, his heart thumped loudly.

  She bit her lower lip in curiosity, waiting for his reply. “Well?”

  He shook his head, focusing. “You asked me earlier how can you trust a speck of light amidst the darkness? The answer is simple. I was that speck of light in the darkness. Only the faintest ray of light led me from true darkness. It’s was them. They believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

  “I see…” she said. “So it is deeper, as I expected. And you believe I can do the same?”

  “It depends.”

  “On?”

  “On what you desire,” he replied, and he saw her intelligent eyes narrow. “You see, they gave me hope, but that was only the rope. I had to choose to grab it and crawl out of that dark pit.”

  Faye looked away, as if thinking. He wanted to read her with the ki, but refrained. Absently, she pushed a stray a lock of scarlet hair, placing it back behind her ear with one hand, as she dug her dagger’s tip into a nearby tree’s root. At last, she looked up, meeting his gaze. She drew near. He felt her warm, sweet breath. A wisp of her hair touched his face. Gray didn’t flinch. Her red lips twisted and she spoke. “You have my word. I will help you, Gray, but you will listen to me as an equal and not as a servant. This is payment for you saving my life, and then we are even. Also, after I get you to Farbs, I want one of your cormacs. You’ll have no need of it there.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  She sniffed indignantly. “Eat it, of course. Cormacs are quite the delicacy.”

  Gray stifled a gag.

  “I plan to ride it, you fool. I’m not greedy or hair-brained enough to sell a cormac.”

  “Is that all?”

  “One last condition,” she said, run
ning a finger along the smooth steel of her blade. “I wish to teach you si’tu’ah. It is the sand tongue. In your language it means ‘The Way of the Sword’.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I enjoy a challenge,” she said. “And a sparring partner is a rare thing for me. Back in Farbs, no one will play with me, and I miss the practice.” Something in the way she said the word “play” gave Gray pause to wonder how many of her “playmates” were still alive.

  He saw her hidden motive, of course. I want to discover what you are, her eyes spoke. Devari? Reaver? No, what are you? he imagined her thinking. It was clever. Teaching him in order to learn something he would otherwise not disclose. “Deal,” he replied.

  “Excellent.” Faye flipped her dagger, caught it by the handle then dragged its fine edge smoothly across her palm. Blood spilled forth. She wiped the flat of the blade clean across her sleeve, and then handed it to him. “Sorry, I trust my honor, but not yours. A blood pact, however, is binding.”

  “How binding?”

  “Farhaven will hold you to it,” she said simply, mysteriously.

  Without pause, Gray grabbed the blade and cut his palm, sucking in a hard breath, water forming in his eyes. How had she not even flinched? He subdued the pain and gripped her hand firmly.

  “It is done,” she said, still a breath away.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Gray straightened. “Ayva,” he stuttered. “We…”

  Her pretty blue eyes narrowed, taking them in. Hurt. Like a dagger to one’s heart. The ki read it in the air, so heavy. At last she shook her head with a fallen look, turned, and left.

  “Well then,” Faye laughed and slapped his shoulder, making him groan in pain. “I’ll take my leave on that note. That’s a perfect introduction to us as traveling partners.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “You need rest, unless you were planning on limping to Farbs?”

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. We need to move.”

  Immediately, she was pressing him down, a dangerous look in her eyes. “No. You are seriously injured. You may not feel it, but you need rest or you may die. I’ve seen Reavers with a hundred times your experience fall victim to over-threading or spark fever. They are fine one moment and dead the next. The spark inside you is drained. Moving will drain it further, and it may vanish completely. One cannot live without the spark.” She stood, turned to walk away, and hesitated, speaking over her shoulder, “Sleep well, friend, for there is no better rest than within a Node.”

  With that, she was gone, her slender form moving into the trees.

  Kirin laughed inwardly. Didn’t you learn your lesson with Vera?

  He ignored the voice.

  You must face harsh truths if you wish to succeed. The Citadel has broken men stronger than you or I.

  It broke you, didn’t it? Gray asked harshly.

  Us, Kirin replied. You’re speaking to yourself.

  Gray had a sudden image of the rainy night he had arrived at Mura’s house—remembering nothing, as if woken from a dark dream—breathless and bone-weary, glimpsing the smoke curling above the trees from the cozy fire-lit hut. Then he remembered the blade in his hand. Morrowil, covered in blood. “Maybe we are one,” he voiced aloud, “but I am not a murderer, and before I accept you, you have to tell me… What happened? What is it you did to make us forget?”

  Kirin wailed in pain, then dwindled into obscurity.

  One way or another, Gray decided with a breath, I will be rid of you. He looked around his silent camp. I need to apologize to Ayva. But what can I say? He put it aside reluctantly and let the sensations of the Node fill him. He needed strength. He needed his flow repaired. Of course, he hadn’t told her that the power inside him was the flow and not the spark. He didn’t know much about either but had read in Tales of The Ronin about them both. The analogy used between the two was always ‘the nine lakes’. The flow was the nine lakes themselves where all magic, including the spark, drew from—a lake of wind, water, fire, stone, flesh, metal, leaf, moon, and sun.

  Some lakes were bigger, and thus it was said some elements more powerful than others, and while the hierarchy was often debated, it was always well-known that wind was the strongest, for it was a lake imbibed by one man alone. The spark was the lake’s residue… the fog, sleet, foam, or ice that clung to its surface, more varied in form but always and inevitably weaker for it was never the true source. Yet the spark could mix and match: a threader of the spark like a Reaver could blend water with fire in the same way sleet or ice mixed with the water’s mist. The flow, on the other hand, could never pull from anything but its original source. In that way, while inferior in raw power, a threader of the spark could do creative blends of magic that a threader of the flow never could…

  Beyond the tale of the nine lakes, however, Gray knew little to nothing about his power, apart from what the Ronin Maris had taught him.

  Gray returned to his body.

  It trembled with fatigue like a leaf in the wind, weak from overuse of his power. A random seed of fear hit him thinking about his power…

  Reassuring himself, he grabbed the nexus and saw something. The ball of wind flickered for a second. Part of it was missing. A small but gaping hole, like a burned patch of crops. “No…” he whispered. He tried to gather his power, but it didn’t come—as if there was a missing link between him and the nexus.

  “It’s gone,” he said in horror.

  Sensai Roots

  THE GIRL OPENED HER PACK AND grabbed something. Faye noticed and her muscles tensed. Swiftly, she reached over the girl’s shoulder, grabbed the curled root and threw it into the nearby lake, then walked away without saying anything.

  Ayva gawked like a noble with a lighter coin purse. “Why did you do that? Those were Sensai Roots!”

  “Sensai Roots gone bad.”

  The girl hesitated. Good, at least she had that much sense.

  Faye shook her head, sitting down heavily and busying herself with oiling and sharpening her dagger. The scrape of stone against steel filled the glade, but she felt a pair of eyes on her.

  Beyond their grassy camp, night had settled around the Node. Here, in this place, even darkness was filled with light and magic. Blue frost bugs hovered above the white pond, which now glittered, lit by the full moon. Beneath the water, silver and orange fish darted—big ones. The air held bits of magic in it too, little blue and white specks. They fell upon the nearby moss, and the moss glowed as if warmed by the touch of the spark.

  The Node filled Faye with a restful sensation as usual, and the moment was peaceful and serene.

  She hated it.

  Nearby, a fire crackled, sparks of red and black spitting into the air. It was cooler in this Node, but the fire was not for warmth. A black, sinewy arm burned in its center. Darkwalkers would burn given time. She covered her mouth from the strange stench, like rotting corpses mixed with something sour.

  The girl continued to eye her like a slighted serving girl. At last Faye sighed and spoke without looking up. “Things don’t spoil the same in Farhaven. Some things stay good for months or longer, others only moments. But spoiling doesn’t equate to sickness like in the weak lands of Daerval. Did you see the black tops of those roots?”

  Ayva nodded, slowly.

  “That means death.”

  “But it was so subtle… How?”

  Faye felt her jaw tighten. She stabbed her dagger into a mossy patch. “Because! You are a swaddled babe in a new world and, as such, you are completely out of your element. This is a world of subtleties.” Again, the simple words were like a blow to the girl’s gut.

  But this time she took an even breath and extracted another leather pouch. She upended it onto the mossy ground. “And these? Bulba Flowers?” They were purple and brown flowers, alternating, their petals finger-thick.

  Faye smiled. “Try one.”

  Ayva eyed her like a deadly Uni Asp. “Are they…”

  “Po
isonous? Not at all.”

  The girl’s eyes never left her. She grabbed one, put it to her lips, and bit. Immediately, she gagged, spitting the parts onto the forest floor of the Node. “Ugh! I’ve never tasted anything so horrid! It’s like rancid meat… How can that be? You poisoned me!” She scrambled for the nearby water skin, gargling and spitting in disgust.

  “No. They just taste awful. One has to be on the verge of death to eat a Bulba Flower. They are fairly nutritious however.”

  Ayva scrubbed her tongue with her fingers, eyes still watering.

  “Stop embellishing,” Faye said, but she knew the girl wasn’t overreacting. It was that foul.

  “Why do they taste that bad?” Ayva asked.

  “Their bitter, foul taste is a defense mechanism against predators like you.”

  “You could have warned me,” she said.

  Faye rose angrily. “I’m growing tired of your ignorance. For my sake, and for your own, just don’t touch anything anymore, ever. I promised Gray I would get you all to Farbs in one piece, and at the rate you’re going, I won’t succeed.” Ayva held her gaze, blue eyes burning with hatred. At last, she lowered her head. Good, Faye thought, feeling a tad pleased with herself. The girl had a surprising backbone. One she didn’t deserve if she couldn’t take the truth.

  Gray approached.

  With a strong jaw, nose, and piercing green eyes, he was handsome, she admitted to herself again. Despite the slow aging of Farhaven, she guessed he was her age, or a year or two younger, but he appeared more youthful. She liked that. Not to mention, she had seen the way he looked at her. Not like most men, but still—beauty was beauty. Fortunately for him, she had no real interest in such things. To her, it was like admiring a painting, or, better yet, the craftsmanship of a fine sword. Yet… She hesitated. There was a darkness in his eyes that he tried to hide.

  He took in the tension of the glade, but ignored it and spoke, “You two ready to leave? Ayva?”

  Ayva rose. “You’re well enough to ride already?”

  “Gray,” Faye said. He turned to her. Yes, there was a hollowness to his gaze, but he had the practice of a Devari, hiding all emotions, just like her father had taught her.