Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  “What are you saying?”

  He looked towards the elf as he was pulled to his feet, bound, blindfolded, and deafened with waxed cloths stuffed in his ears. Hadrian complied without so much as a twitch of a muscle. It was good he did. Rydel replied at last. “What he said… my kind… he seemed to know too much. He seemed worried that I was alive, or surprised to see it so.”

  “Perhaps the other Hidden are being hunted by Dryan,” she posed.

  “Perhaps,” Rydel said mysteriously.

  Karil cleared her throat, watching as Hadrian was hauled to his feet. “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked you, but how many Hidden are there left?” She felt odd asking. She should know, but it was not a topic Rydel ever seemed to want to talk about, like a family he had lost and could not bring himself to rekindle the harsh memories.

  “Just two that I know of, but the way he spoke… it seemed too familiar. As if when he asked, your kind, I felt he wanted to say something else…”

  Karil hesitated when Hadrian, with his guard of fifty Lando, was marched forward.

  Hadrian suddenly stopped before her. Despite the swarm of guard around him, Karil felt a flash of fear as his blindfolded eyes turned towards her. She felt his eyes, burning. How? My scent? she wondered. A thin smile passed across his face, but it was gone just as quickly, leaving her to question whether it had been there.

  “Sunvai and Leahwin was it?” the Terma asked in a dark voice. “I will remember their names.”

  Anger boiled inside her. She stepped forward, and pressed steel against Hadrian. His fair skin peeled, blood dripping from her blade. Calmly, she pulled out one piece of waxed cloth from his ear and hissed, “You do not have the right to remember their names”—finally feeling her human side—“nor the need, for you will not live to see the light of day ever again.”

  Again, the hidden smile—but this time, she knew she had seen it.

  “Peace upon you, my queen,” Hadrian said. “May you discover the truth soon.”

  She stuffed the waxed cloth back and gruffly motioned to his guards. Several elves jabbed him in the back, drawing blood. Calmly, leisurely, Hadrian looked forward and continued out the tent. With his head high and gait measured, he appeared as if a king escorted by his guards.

  Lannor stopped at her side.

  Unfurling her sweaty fist, Karil instructed, “Double the guard and, upon their lives, impress upon them vigilance at all times—tell them I will check on them myself to be sure.” Lannor bowed low, and moved out, following the captive and the host of Lando.

  Rydel suddenly gripped a nearby officer’s arm. “Have any who are able to lift a sword, those not attending the prisoner, meet me in the center field.”

  The officer’s thin lips quirked in a smile he could not hide. “Yes, Hidden.” He moved, but then paused, looking almost anxious for an elf. “And…. might I say, the Lando rejoice to have you as their teacher at last.”

  “They will not be rejoicing long,” Rydel said with a subtle grin. “Nor will you be so happy when I run you through your paces long into the night and you’re bruised and battered from head to toe. But you will be ready, for I will see you fit to fight even the Terma.” Karil shivered in memory, yet oddly longing for those days. The lessons had been hard, but the pain had been simpler, if still sharp. The elf looked fearful as well. Yet oddly, he looked even more excited as he clasped a fist to his heart and ran off to see it done.

  “I will go now,” Rydel announced turning back to her. “I must see to making our forces strong.”

  Karil felt her heart warm again. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “That’s one thing you never have to do,” Rydel replied, sliding his sword smoothly in its sheath at one side, opposite its twin brother, and grabbing the tent’s flap. “But you are welcome regardless, my queen. I will do my best.”

  “I know you will.”

  Rydel paused, holding the tent’s flap, revealing again the bustle of war. Something crossed Rydel’s stern features—a dark, brooding look but then it was gone. “Be careful,” he said simply, at last. With that, he slipped into the light of day. But before he did, she heard one last strange word, murmured in thought.

  A word she had heard Hadrian use.

  Brother…

  Dreams and Deeds

  MEIRA WORKED THE THREADS FLAWLESSLY AND brutally.

  She was a natural.

  Sweat beaded upon her brow, forehead wrinkling in concentration. But the sweat was not from exhaustion. She worked harder, knowing it was slowly killing her, not her body, but her soul—if there was such a thing. She had never honestly believed in souls or things of that nature, not until she had been assigned to this malevolent room.

  Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Another sharp cry sounded. It hit the marble walls and dissipated instantly, for all sound was drained in this place, if not by the thick walls of the room buried deep beneath the great keep of the Citadel, then by magic spells from ancient Reavers that nullified noise.

  Lying on the cold marble, upon the Star of Magha, the old man’s back arched as she worked. His eyes flared wide in shock, rolling to the back of his head as he gasped in searing pain.

  No more…

  Meira tried not to see, tried not to feel his pain, but she couldn’t help it. His straggled hair seemed to have gained white streaks of age in just days. White robes, now dirtied with blood and sweat, were stripped to his waist. Torso bared, his body was lathered in a sheen of sweat while red and black lacerations marred his arms, chest, and face.

  The others continued to work. She eyed them out of the corner of her eye as she threaded, quickly assessing each. Eight Reavers in total, each chosen because of their power or their ruthlessness—including herself.

  And all wore resolute, grim faces, as if preparing for death.

  But not their own.

  From her upraised palms, Meira watched her power join the other dark streams, like eight spokes of a wagon wheel meeting at the center where the chained prisoner lay. The old man roared as the other Reavers redoubled their efforts. His voice would go raw soon once again, but still they would continue.

  It felt like an eternity that Meira had been here, assigned to this task, watching and aiding as the old man was lashed with fire, blinded, given bubbling blisters using the power of sun, and made to suffer with other bizarre tortures, all to get him to speak. He had experienced days of being shrouded in pure darkness with the threads of moon to cloud the senses and give the sensation of eternal torture, days of having sharp stones scraped slowly across his body, and days of having molding fungi fester in his wounds and grow within his lungs.

  Yet nothing was as potent or as effective in torture as flesh. And no one was better at wielding the brutal element than her. While Meira was immensely powerful as a three-stripe Reaver, she could not bring herself to draw more than a trickle of the spark. The old man’s agony ate at her, draining her as surely as the sun sucked the sweat from a man’s skin.

  “It is not enough. More flesh, Meira!” Guran commanded. He was the leader of the Fuse—eight wielders working as one.

  Please, just give in already, she begged for the countless time.

  She kept her face smooth, however, and did as Guran commanded, hiding a shiver. She could not let the others see her reluctance. Thick threads of flesh made the already thick stream of power swell like a bulging muscle, then bite into the old man, gnashing like teeth upon raw nerves. The old man’s back arched until she thought it would snap. His body trembled. It was the first time she had seen that… She suppressed another shiver. How was he so strong? Though Meira considered herself tough, she knew she would have broken during the first day of torture. But she suspected that was the difference between the man before her and all others. Even without the spark, he was a legend.

  Without the spark…

  The man cried out again, and she softened the threads of flesh, reflexively.

  Suddenly, she felt eyes. Guran was gazing at her
suspiciously. Fear flushed through Meira. Guran had a direct ear to Sithel. No… She had given herself up. Meira did the only thing she could think of, unsure exactly what she was doing. Twisting dozens of threads of flesh together, she made a dark spell.

  Compelling—an ancient spell that would force the wielder to speak.

  The prisoner gasped, words forced from his thoughts and to his lips: “He must not find me. He must not save me. I was wrong… He must… Run…” Ezrah began to quake violently, body railing against his chains. She thought he was done, and she prayed it was so but he spoke again, this time in single, painful words, “Unatias… Sunthas…”

  “What is he saying?” Guran shouted angrily. “Compel him, Reaver Meira! Force him to make sense!”

  She hesitated, but not for long. She twisted the threads, turning a switch in his mind from the ancient dialect he was using to the common tongue and Ezrah’s rambling shifted. “Yronia… Sithel… Voidstone… Gray… He is comin—”

  Frantically, she twisted the threads, subtly and swiftly. Ezrah’s rambling halted. His eyes shut, his body limp against the marble. She saw no one was looking at her, and breathed a hidden sigh. Upon the cold, red marble, Ezrah breathed shallowly. He was not dead, merely unconscious. Whatever he was saying seemed too dire… She had started it, but she couldn’t let Sithel win. Not this fight, at least.

  “He’s suffered the limit of pain. He’s passed out,” said Reaver Finn Ilunis.

  “So it seems,” Guran said, sounding doubtful. She looked up and found his gaze, forcing herself to meet it. She felt her body heat up and sweat pop upon her brow, but she refrained from flinching.

  Suddenly, the door opened.

  Reavers in scarlet robes stood in the wide entry, announcing the next shift.

  Meira hid a breath of relief. At last…

  Without waiting to receive the command, she let go of her connection with the Fuse, letting the spark fall from her. Each Reaver let go in sequence, the golden glow fading—an aura seen only by those with the spark. Meira felt her body slump, now exhausted. Sleep beckoned, but she cared not for it. A reprieve was the only blessing she was grateful for.

  She made her way to the door, ignoring the others’ eyes as they followed.

  Outside, she attempted to feign patience, but continued to move swiftly when a voice called her name, “Meira!”

  She turned to see three Reavers.

  Reaver Finn Ilunis had called her name. Reaver Yuni Sinal was behind him, then Reaver Dagon Swift—a Reaver from the newest shift. The three approached her. Finn’s blue eyes were red-rimmed, but his angular face looked as if he’d just seen an apparition come to life. Finn was a close childhood friend, but since the Citadel had changed, she still did not fully trust him. Oh how she dearly wanted to… But as it was, there was no on left to trust—not even herself.

  She smiled serenely as they circled her. She was a paragon of poise, in full control again now that she was outside that room of horrors. “Yes?”

  Finn spoke animatedly. “How? How did you do that? Never in my life have I seen flesh used in that way…”

  “I would also like to know how you did that,” said a voice behind the three. Reaver Guran suddenly pushed his way through. Tall and muscular, Guran was not only the epitome of power but of masculinity as well. Meira despised his arrogance, and even more, its effect on others. Guran grinned charmingly. “Compelling. I’ve only read about it until now in tomes of old.” He sounded amused, distrustful, and hateful all at the same time.

  “It was easy,” she lied, having accomplished it just then for the first time.

  “Then share by all means.”

  “Only if you insist,” she said and wove the complicated threads in the air before any could reject. She pressed it forward, into Guran, taking him off-guard. He was more powerful than her in nearly every element and in raw strength, but he was too cocky, and flesh was her trademark. The layered spell hit Guran.

  Guran suddenly squawked, mouth moving awkwardly, “Stupid bitch! How’d she do it? I wish I knew!”

  The others looked at one another in amazement as Guran’s face grew red with embarrassment and anger. Finn, her friend, tried simply not to laugh though a chuckle escaped.

  “And now you know,” she said offhandedly.

  “How in the…” Reaver Yuni said.

  “Meira,” Finn exclaimed, amazed. “Do you realize that was nearly three-dozen threads at once? My eyes, woman! I never thought anyone but an Arbiter could accomplish something of that note.” Meira observed Finn’s enthusiasm bitterly. How could he be so full of life after what they had done? She felt wracked with shame to her core.

  Guran, however, was not so amazed or pleased. “You…!” The man’s rage mounted, his hand raising. Meira didn’t flinch. It was no use. She knew she could do nothing to him before he incinerated her to a small pile of ash, but it had almost been worth it. Almost. Perhaps then her guilt, her despair, would be washed free.

  “Enough!” Reaver Dagon ordered. All went silent, heads bowed. Even Guran hesitated. Dagon bore the fourth stripe upon his wide sleeves. He was nearly an Arbiter, though still chasms away. In all reality, despite being the most powerful and experienced, Dagon was pitiful compared to an Arbiter. Even Guran’s raw talent with fire was but a flickering flame to an Arbiter. “You yourself asked for a demonstration, Guran. However, you know as well as any, Reaver Meira, that use of the spark against a fellow brother or sister is strictly prohibited. I shall report this to the Highmaster Venasi, and he will decide if punishment is deserved. That will be all, unless either of you wish to contest this further?”

  Meira shook her head wisely. Highmaster Venasi was the head taskmaster, but all knew lately he cowed to Sithel’s command. Banishment was the price of disorder as of late. Death, she amended fearfully. Even the hotheaded Guran growled, but said no more. He pushed his way past, shoving other scarlet robed Reavers aside and leaving a wake of fiery ire behind him.

  Dagon turned to her—she saw pain behind his eyes. Could she confide in him? Was he simply worn down by exhaustion or was this dark deed sucking his soul from his body as well? She grit her teeth, wishing she knew. She could not risk it. Dagon spoke, addressing all, but eyeing Meira. “I would advise returning to your rooms for sleep as Master Sithel has instructed, my brothers and sisters, for we will be called on again soon, and you will need rest for your next shift.”

  The others left, though she saw Finn linger.

  She ignored him, moving to leave, but Dagon grabbed her arm. “Rest well, Reaver Meira,” said the four-stripe Reaver. “For I have a feeling the next shift will be the last one we will ever have, and this shall finally be over.”

  Meira’s eyes narrowed, trying to judge Dagon’s tone. Was he elated at the prospect of being done as she was? She had to know. “Finally?” she asked, her tone treading between excitement and simple curiosity.

  “Spirits willing, it will be done at last,” Dagon replied and sighed heavily.

  Yes. I can trust him, she thought. Another sliver of relief lanced through her, thoughts brewing…

  She parted ways with quick, polite words and moved through halls, venturing out of the dark, deeply restricted depths of the Citadel. More and more people moved about the higher she rose, Neophytes, Reavers, guards and servants—even a few stalking Devari strode through the white and black marble halls.

  A group of Neophytes saw the three stripes on her cuff and bowed deeply, awe filling their eyes. She remembered that look, that feeling once… barely now. It seemed so long ago.

  Her hands shook as she moved. She feared that servants, Neophytes, and Reavers would see it and question, but they simply continued to bow deeply in her presence, and she felt more waves of guilt with each bow of adoration. Meira clenched her eyes, trying to shove aside the darkness, to assume her normally ironclad shell of confidence, but it was not easy. Each time she did, she heard the old man’s screams, and the shell shattered like the frail husk it now was. Sh
e tightened her fists to stop her hands from trembling and decided… She could not think on what she was doing or it would break her. Simple as that. It was too foul, too horrific.

  But as she moved, she saw other Reavers’ eyes, men she had seen Sithel commanding. Meira suddenly feared the eyes watching her from all corners. She moved faster, passing grand halls, open entry chambers, green courtyards, and more. The Citadel was alive and thriving as always, but it felt false, like a disguise. The Citadel was a graveyard of darkness wearing the guise of life, or worse, a villainous man wearing the robes of the pious. It was false. She entered a chamber open to the sunlit day, but the sun felt cold on her pale skin. She kept moving, towards the Eastern Wing.

  She had to get to her room.

  A three-stripe Reaver she knew suddenly appeared from the far hallway. Reaver Dijarik was a ruthless man in charge of torturing the old man as well. Without her shell of confidence, Meira felt suddenly vulnerable.

  Show hesitancy and you may end up the same! her mind shouted. For the Citadel had changed, those who questioned the will of Sithel were never seen again. Rumors sifted that those Reavers or Neophytes had been assigned to guarding other Great Kingdoms, but Meira knew better.

  They had been expunged like vermin.

  Not willing to risk it, she ducked behind a large standing vase in an empty hallway adjacent to the sunlit chamber and watched as Reaver Dijarik passed.

  She closed her eyes, breathing thin and fast, sweat coating her skin beneath her heavy robes. What had become of the once-great Citadel? Yet Meira knew the Patriarch would end it soon. Once he returns from his trip to seek aid from the other Great Kingdoms, he will set it right. She only had to wait. Though what would he do when he saw what she had done? But what could she do to resist it?

  With Reaver Dijarik gone, she moved onward, gathering her calm around her one last time like a mantle. She moved towards the grand Eastern Wing of the Citadel, which housed the higher-ranking Reavers—towards her chamber and sleep.