by Matthew Wolf
Holding the candle to the light streaming from the window, Gray pulled, but this time he listened as well. His eyes tightened on the burning flame. He felt the wind begin to form on the tips of his fingers, little white threads reaching for the orange fire. He wanted to pull more, to hold the power tighter, but instead he relaxed his mind. A slight breeze ruffled the sheets, and the flame wavered, but then settled, still burning brightly. Gray sighed, letting the nexus fall. Ezrah placed a solemn hand upon his shoulder. “With time, my boy, with time… There is also power in patience.”
Just then, there was a knock.
“Come in,” Ezrah called in the voice of an Arbiter.
Meira entered with a group of Reavers behind her. She took in the scene with her usual smooth face. He saw she was wearing a fresh set of scarlet robes, and the dark stripes upon her cuff seemed to pull in the light of the tranquil room. She spoke. “I’m sorry to delay your reunion, my—” she seemed to struggle for an honorific “—Arbiter,” she settled on, it sounded powerful enough.
“What is it?” Ezrah asked. Again, his voice was soft, but it demanded authority like a general upon the battlefield, despite sitting in a bed on the recovery from the brink of death.
“We’ve only just begun, and there’s much to be done. Sithel’s darkness is spreading. We need you.”
“His wounds have barely closed,” Gray said, his jaw tightening. “Can you not wait until his strength has recovered at least a little?” Through the ki, he felt compassion coming from Meira, but her stern expression didn’t alter.
“It’s all right, my boy,” Ezrah said, and Gray turned to see his grandfather wearing a strong but kind smile. “I must see to this. I must heed my own words and find the strength within.”
Gray nodded but paused, not moving from his seat.
His grandfather lifted a brow, “My boy?”
Gray couldn’t leave. “I…”
Ezrah, seeing his consternation, looked to the other Reavers. “Leave us,” he commanded powerfully. Meira opened her mouth as if to object. “Now.” The word boomed, and some three-stripe Reavers made flustered bows, while others just hurried for the door, but all obeyed, even Meira.
“We’ll give you another moment or two, but no more,” she said, shutting the door.
The room returned to silence, and he felt the weight of his grandfather’s eyes.
“What is it, Gray? Speak your mind.”
Gray’s fist tightened around the candle. “The Ronin.”
Ezrah’s expression darkened. “You want to know who you are?”
“I know,” he said. “I am Kail’s progeny.”
“You are much more than that, Gray.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are a Ronin, a Devari, and the blood of an Arbiter flows through your veins.” Gray swallowed at the weight of those words. “There is much that stands upon your shoulders, my boy, though you’ve a long path ahead of you and much to learn… You hold a greater power inside you than anything the world has ever known.”
Gray shivered. “What am I to do with it?”
“That is your call,” Ezrah said simply then smiled and touched Gray’s hand that held the book and something seemed to sift into him. There was a click in his mind as a chill coursed through his limbs, despite the warm air in the lighted room. What was that? “Know this, my boy,” the man said in a deep voice. “Whatever your power, you are still you. Your choices are yours alone. Only you can shape who you will become.”
There was a rushed knock, and Meira’s faced peeked back in. “My Arbiter,” she voiced calmly, but the vein of urgency was clear. “We’ve waited long enough. Too much is at stake. The boy is not going anywhere. We must discuss our plans.”
Gray sighed and rose, but Ezrah’s hand stopped him. “I’ve waited two years to see my grandson. I do not intend to lose him again so soon. You may stay, my boy, if you’d like.”
“It’s all right,” he said, warmed by his grandfather’s words. “I’m not needed here, I’ll only get in the way. But don’t worry, as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is far from finished.”
Ezrah gave a mischievous wink. “Until then.” Gray turned, and Ezrah called out, “My boy. Are you forgetting something?” he said, holding the worn tome in his hand. I thought that was just in my hand? Confused, he thanked his grandfather and grabbed the book. The chill coursed through him again. Feeling strangely drained, Gray moved to the door as the others rushed in.
A Book of Truth
AS GRAY LEFT EZRAH, HE MOVED into the adobe hall, book under his arm, making his way towards the stairs when he felt something tug upon his mind. Ezrah’s words played over again.
Until then…
He shook it off and continued. He passed a room with men and women talking around a low table and sitting on small cushions—newcomers to the Tranquil House. They had been coming in small droves. Farbian guards, Reavers, servants, and even Devari, any and all with sense enough to see the Citadel was breaking. As such, their cause was growing rapidly.
Meira had refrained from pulling out the Neophytes. Not yet at least, she said. Several had already ‘disappeared’ in their attempts to flee. It was too dangerous, she had decided. But Gray felt the tension building. How long could this continue? It was only a matter of time until the Citadel discovered their whereabouts. Real conflict, like a teakettle close to boiling, was bound to happen.
Sithel was building his forces, preparing for something, and Gray feared it. Whispers spoke of it throughout the Tranquil House, in every hall, sifting in and out of all corners of the large building.
“How many are left?” a woman’s voice asked with authority. A Reaver.
Gray ducked back, listening to the conversation in the room.
“We’ve recovered only a small portion of our brothers and sisters. Too many Reavers have swayed to the darkness, or worse, are too afraid to speak up or act. Sithel has cast a fear over the Citadel that is all but tangible. More are coming to our cause, but it is dangerous to do so, almost too dangerous. As it stands, we are outnumbered ten to one. We must sway others to our rebellion or we will never stand a chance.”
“What do you intend, Reaver Unuri?” a stern voice asked of the woman—it sounded like a Devari. “Do you plan to start a war all on your own?”
“War is already upon us, Devari. Ignoring it only leaves us blind. If we remain blind, then we will fall.”
“Perhaps, Unuri,” said the first female Reaver, placidly. “But we must be careful as well. What if Sithel simply shuts the doors to the Citadel? What then? Or openly begins the manhunt of all non-dark Reavers? As it stands, he has been tactical enough to do his dark deeds behind closed doors. How many will die if he purges the Citadel of those remaining who are loyal to our cause? We must not force his hand in this. There are too many factors to consider. One wrong action could spell our demise, and before we even have a chance to act.”
“Wise words for any other time, Reaver Ethelwin, but how long is caution the correct course of action? With each passing second we grow, but Sithel grows even stronger. How long must we wait?”
“We wait until the Arbiter decides it is time, and no sooner.”
There was a silence, as if this seemed the right course of action for all.
“Let us hope he decides soon then…” said Reaver Unuri.
Reaver Ethelwin spoke again, her soft voice sing-songy as if trying to lighten the mood. “How about the Devari? How fare our numbers with your ilk?”
“We are still split as well,” said a deep-voiced man, sounding troubled. “The younglings side with our rebellion, but they are not Sword-Forged. The true might of the Devari still lies in Jian’s hands. And he will never lead them against the Citadel. He is a man of duty above all else. Nothing will sway him but the Patriarch’s hand, and he is still away on foreign matters.”
“And the servants?” asked another.
“Good, m’lady. Sithel has not cast his foul eyes to us y
et. We have garnered over two dozen to our cause. And a good thing too with our rising numbers! Or we’d never have the ovens working in such force, or beds made—”
“Beds?” scoffed a younger voice. “This is ridiculous!”
“Reaver Suntha, watch your words…”
“No. I’ll not be silent! I watched two of my brothers die to Sithel and his dark Reavers. Yet here we sit, gossiping about bedpans and cooking when we need an army!”
“Enough!” Reaver Ethelwin snapped in return. “It is not Sula’s fault. She is doing her best like every one of us. We can only follow the path before us until another is revealed. It is our way. Now, if you are quite finished, we have other matters—”
Feeling guilty, Gray decided not to eavesdrop anymore, and continued forward.
Those in the room saw him, and their conversation halted abruptly.
Several Devari cast salutes while the servants bowed low. Even the male and female Reavers rose and made awkward bows.
Gray swallowed and moved on. None knew how to deal with him upon discovering Ezrah was his grandfather. An Arbiter. Most seemed to flash him looks of fear, respect, but above all, curiosity. He had no spark, and they seemed to be able to read it in him. But he didn’t care. Their looks were just a buzzing fly, something he carried beneath a much greater mantle.
But their words troubled him.
War.
He passed a Reaver on the stairs that was gazing out of the two-storied balcony. He paused. Despite Ezrah’s warning, Gray reached out with the ki, entering the man’s body. He expected a wall. The man was three-striped, but he found nothing. Literally, nothing. His mind was not a door left open, there was no door. He seeped into the man’s body. He felt the cold metal railing beneath his forearms. As he saw through the Reaver’s eyes, people moved below, but the man’s gaze was distant. He saw none of it. As if he was no longer alive.
Gray retreated from the man’s body with a deep shiver.
With the book under his arm, Gray left, moving outside. It was a lush, green glade split by a running brook and several trees. The neighborhood was upscale by any standards Gray knew. Over the backyard’s walls, he glimpsed other large houses, and the street was wide and filled with people adorned in silks and jewels. He hardly felt it was a suitable hideout, but Reaver Meira had assured him that the large house was normal, at least by the standards of Farbs. As a whole, he supposed she was right. The tan brickwork of the house, though covered in vines, was relatively plain. The stables on the backside, opposite the dirt street, were no larger than those at the average inn, perhaps even smaller—making the rebel army rather cramped.
Again, his attention turned to the lush backyard.
The dry heat already sucked all moisture from his mouth, yet the glade reminded him vaguely of the Nodes. Perhaps magic sustains this place? He sat down on a low stonewall that encircled the glade, needing to think about what was coming.
His hand touched the book in his lap, and he felt strength radiate across his palm. Curious, Gray looked down and saw the book was glowing as if alive. Cautiously, he peeled back the thick cover and the warm yellow glow washed across his skin.
“What in the…” he breathed.
Suddenly the words upon the page, once strange and unreadable, were now shifted before his eyes, their lines making sense bit by bit until… He understood it. All of it. And he read.
189 D.L.
Upon these pages are the events succeeding what many have deemed the Final Age—an age that has been shattered by The Betrayal, that of the stolen blade. The ill-famed deed that caused the end of the Everlasting Peace and ushered in our age, nearly leaving the world a ruined heath, an age known by one name only now.
The Lieon.
In the following pages are the accounts of the great war of the Lieon, and of the shattered peace between the nine Great Kingdoms, but mostly here are the stories of the righteous that fought against an unfathomable darkness.
In these pages held by magic, herein lies the true tales of the Ronin…
Yet as the words formed, mouthed upon Gray’s lips, the golden glowing letters upon the page took shape, forming a picture that filled his mind, stealing his sight.
He saw a world beautiful and resplendent. Brief flashes of nine grand cities. Scarlet and silver flower petals rained from the air upon cities filled with wealth and prosperity—men, women, and children joyously filling the streets. The Great Kingdom of Water, its grand falls feeding a tiered city of splendor. Moon, a buried gem of a city with thousands of arched tunnels and waterways cast in ever-present sea foam light. Leaf, the Elvin sanctuary full of life and green light, a city suspended in the towering trees. Stone, its walls thicker than buildings and hidden away in a towering field of boulders. Metal, a heaping mass of steel with walls backed against the Mountains of Soot and forges that burn endlessly, the Deep Mines burrowing to the core of the world. Flesh, a sprawling city swarming with life, man, woman, and beast worked to the bone. Wind, a magnificent bastion of spiraling towers, walkways and parapets situated on the windy, impossibly high cliffs of Ren Nar that overlooked the world. Then he saw a glimpse of a familiar city. Farbs. The Great Kingdom of Fire. The desert city was twice the size—and each building was not clay, but gilded in gold and greenery. Trees littered all the land, each flowing with pure silver veins. He saw creatures, thousands of them, things he couldn’t put a name to, living in the lands, in the bountiful forests, in the rushing rivers that glimmered translucent blue. The Final Age.
Flash.
He saw a city of light. The Great Kingdom of Sun. Suddenly he was inside, and he saw a magnificent sword mounted upon a wall in the center of a grand hall. It was guarded by rows upon rows of ironclad warriors, their faces grim as death. Gray saw hidden traps as well, hundreds of them—poison-tipped arrows and countless wards of magic. But his gaze was only for the blade of light. The sword glowed golden—like a sun had been set within the folds of its brilliant metal. It was slender, tip curved, blade straight, and handle arched. Gray marveled at it. It was more a graceful work of art than a blade, but he could sense it was equally deadly. He felt a stab of pain. Suddenly, it was gone. Stolen, he knew. The kingdom was in an uproar, the world on edge, looking for the one to blame. War was coming… The Betrayal.
Flash.
Next he saw war and bloodshed, corpses stacked upon corpses, so much that he shut his eyes, waiting for it all to stop, but still it came. At last, it ended. The Lieon.
Flash.
Then finally, an image came to him.
Nine figures standing upon a rolling green hill.
Cloaks wavering in the winds, each showed the varying symbols of the Great Kingdoms. Gray saw Kail, his red eyes flashing. Each looked the very definition of a legend. Their swords were unsheathed, the color of the blades mimicking their powers, blazing in the morning light as they stood before an army of darkness.
And—
“Mind if I join you?”
The images shattered, and Gray returned back to the world. He turned and saw Zane and snapped the book shut, severing the connection completely. In the dusky light, the fiery man held a bowl filled with a variety of odd-looking fruits. He held the bowl out, and Gray took a few berries, hiding his uncertainty at the weird green dots upon the vivid red skin.
“Gladly,” he said, glad for Zane’s presence and a distraction from his thoughts.
Zane plopped down at Gray’s side and looked ahead, copper eyes squinting at the purple and red striated clouds, as if seeing it all for the first time. “How was your conversation?”
“Good, and yet…”
Zane looked over, curious. Gray didn’t know how to explain it. He looked up at the window above, knowing Meira and Ezrah and the others were discussing dark plans about Sithel and the Citadel, and preparing for war.
Ezrah. His grandfather.
“I have family finally. I’m not sure how to even react.”
“Happy?” Zane asked. “That’d be a start.�
��
Gray laughed. “You’re right. There’s still so much I want to know. The man knew who I once was…” As he said the words, he paused. Wasn’t it just recently that I didn’t care about that? Who I am now is what matters.
But who am I now? he wondered. Was such a thing so simple?
The book felt warm beneath his palm still.
A Ronin.
Excitement and fear swirled inside him. It was a name that many dreaded, but to Gray, for as long as he could remember, Ronin was a name of burning intrigue. And now he was one of them, and not just one, but Kail’s progeny—the strongest Ronin. A shiver traced his spine at the thought of such power and responsibility. He lifted his hand, but the nexus flickered in his mind—its flaw glaring. He set it aside.
No, Gray knew his potential, but he was not there. Aside from feeling broken, he feared Kail’s legacy. To go insane, to become the dark traitor. He had seen the man. In the end, Kail’s motives had been true and good, yet how much did he really know of Kail? All the Ronin had feared him. But what had they feared? How many had known the truth? In the end, Kail had saved the world, but Gray had seen the man’s red eyes. They had been filled with power and darkness. He knew Morrowil was part of the cause, spawning some of Kail’s evil. The blade had nearly conquered Gray as well before he realized that the sword merely manifested the darkness inside him. He could not fall victim to Kail’s same dark fears and desires lest Morrowil take control and feed upon it, just as it fed upon his light. But was there more? What had Kail done? Gray’s hand gripped the book tighter, fingers curling around its thick, worn spine realizing that perhaps the answers were closer than he ever imagined. In the end, he was the most powerful Ronin, or at least had that potential inside him. But was that a grand gift or a terrible curse? Or both?
