Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2)

by Matthew Wolf

  No… Sithel thought. I am strong… His childhood terror filled him, the only thing he feared more than death. “You’re wrong. I am strong!” he bellowed. “You cannot kill me!” He thrust the voidstone further forward, and the blue light flared, then sputtered and the black limbs continued to crawl and writhe forward inevitably.

  “No,” the dark figure hissed. “You are nothing.”

  Sithel screamed as the tendrils flashed. They plunged through his body, and he felt his insides twist, innards tugged brutally, and he sprouted new tears of agony. He shrieked, begging for it to stop, but the twisting pain continued, as if his limbs and body were being stretched and picked apart, piece-by-piece.

  At last, it ended.

  When he opened his eyes—lids sore from the pain of holding them clenched so tightly—he expected to see himself in the realm of the dead, but instead, he saw a vision of terror: the obsidian walls glimmered, showing the reflection of a demon. But it was not his master—it was himself.

  His master spoke in a deadly cold tone. “I’ve decided to reform you, sparing you for now. Yet raise your hand against me again, my pet, and I swear to deliver unto you pain so horrifying that it will make death seem the lightest of breezes.”

  And the light hit his dark lord’s face, showing features that he both knew and feared. “I shall obey, mistress,” Sithel answered, voice rumbling and dark, strange in his own throat. But he reveled in it—terror and delight filled him, his grin spreading as he eyed his clawed hand.

  He was powerful, at last.

  Life Restored

  THE NEARBY FIRE WARMED GRAY’S BACK as his quill scratched against the parchment, writing his letter to Karil. In the corner of his eye, he saw his strange book that Mura had given him resting upon the desk. Occasionally, he thumbed through it to aid his burgeoning poem. Beside it sat his dinner, a spicy vegetable soup from the kitchens of the Citadel. It was tasty, but it was growing cold as he worked to find the words to describe what was coming, for them and for the world as a whole.

  It had been two days since the battle upon the Reliahs desert, the disappearance of Sithel, and the death of Meira. They now were in Ezrah’s room, in the upper restricted halls of the Citadel. With the influx of Lost Ones, the keep was packed tighter than a school of Inago fish, for nearly every room was filled. Zane, with Gray’s help, had convinced Ezrah and the Reavers to house the Lost Ones until they got back on their feet. It only made sense with the loss of all those foul dark Reavers.

  But it wasn’t so bad. Ezrah’s room was quite comfortable—stuffed chairs, gold stands, vases of priceless Saerien porcelain, and a warm fire glowed in the marble hearth. Despite its opulence, the room felt as familiar and comforting as Mura’s hut, reminding him of his slowly returning memories.

  Still, Gray was growing restless.

  They all were, for this was their last night in Farbs.

  Nearby, Darius and Zane lounged on a rich, purple and gold-scrolled rug in the center of the room. The rogue puffed on a new pipe, while he and the fiery man played a game of Elements. The rogue hummed a quiet tune, scrutinizing his next move,

  “I’ve seen the darkness come and go

  I’ve seen the light sway and fro,

  But all I’ve really hoped to see,

  Was your sweet beauty,

  Gazing—gazing, up-on me.”

  Gray had taught both of them the basics of Elements from his memories. Zane was on a winning streak. He had backed Darius into a corner now with two orange flame-shaped figurines. “You swear you’ve never played this?” Darius asked, breaking his tune, making his move with a disgruntled sound.

  “Not once,” Zane said. He plopped a glass flame closer to Darius’ side of the board then returned to idly spinning his dagger on a patch of bare stone.

  The rogue grumbled. “How are you so good at this?”

  “You forget, fire is my element,” Zane said with a sly smirk.

  “Oh, so clever,” Darius said sarcastically, a bitter tinge to his voice.

  “It was clever,” Gray remarked without looking up. “Don’t be bitter.”

  “Bah, this game is over anyway,” Darius exclaimed. “It’s your turn, Ayva.”

  Ayva sat across from Gray. Cradling her head with one hand, her elbows rested upon the only table—a polished desk made of a strange white wood—while she gazed wistfully out the nearby window. Outside, the sun was setting, but Gray could see men walking the ramparts, guards and Devari, others strolling through the green yards far below. But he knew that’s not what Ayva was thinking about. Her mind instead fixated upon the woman who had called her Diaon. “Let Hannah take my turn,” she said distantly.

  Hannah sat close beside Zane as always, cross-legged, wearing a blue dress. “I’m busy,” she said with a stone figure gripped tightly in her hand, beads of sweat growing on her forehead in concentration. Zane’s sister was everything the fiery man wasn’t—innocent and quiet. He knew that was something Zane had fought for, but Gray had seen fire in her too, much like her brother’s.

  “What are you daydreaming about anyway?” Darius asked Ayva.

  Absently fingering a notch in the smooth, white desk, she answered quietly, “She’s still out there.”

  “Don’t get me started on that woman,” Darius cursed, pulling his leaf-blade closer. “I still don’t get why she had to steal Mirkal. Why not your steed, Gray? You said it was your deal after all. First my pipe, now my cormac. The woman truly is evil,” he said with a snort. Despite the fact that she’d tried to kill him and Ayva, Gray thought the rogue seemed more upset at the loss of a pipe and his mount. Though he knew that wasn’t the truth. The woman had left her mark on the rogue, and Ayva. On them all for that matter.

  Gray recalled Faye holding a head in her hand before she had tossed it to the ground, and he asked suddenly, “I never asked by the way, but what did Darkeye look like?”

  Zane stirred. He was scratching his stubbled cheek with his dagger and his hand froze. Gray knew he still held a bitter hatred towards Darkeye for kidnapping his sister. A hate that only seemed to burn deeper at his disappearance in the battle.

  “Darkeye?” Ayva asked. “Well, like a thief. He had dark auburn eyes, unkempt blond hair, and a black mask, oh and a white scar that ran across his face.”

  The quill snapped in Gray’s hand. “Are you sure…?”

  Darius snorted. “I was face to face with that murderer. That’s him all right. What’s gotten into you?”

  Gray looked down to his hand and saw he’d cut himself from the quill. It was only a tiny laceration, but blood was beginning to ooze. It reminded him of Faye and his blood pact within the Node, and her words echoed in his head. Farhaven will hold you to it… “Darkeye is dead,” Gray announced quietly. “Faye killed him.”

  “What?” Zane questioned, eyes burning.

  And Gray explained quickly what he saw. “That’s the strangest news I’ve ever heard,” Darius remarked. “Good news, but strange. That woman continues to boggle my mind.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Zane countered. “But in either case, it’s still clear Sithel got away.”

  “Was he really the one behind it all?” Darius asked.

  “I fear he wasn’t,” Zane answered. “Before Lucky left, the little champion told me something. He said that Sithel was stealing boys and draining their spark under Arbiter Fera’s command. Worse yet, she had asked to see me…”

  Those in the room grew even more darkly silent. “Then Arbiter Fera is the cause of all this madness?” Darius whispered. “She is the puppet master pulling Sithel’s strings?”

  “Perhaps…” Zane said hesitantly. “As dark as this may sound, she didn’t kill any of the boys. In fact, Lucky said she even stayed Sithel’s bloodthirsty hand. Instead, she seems to be searching for something.”

  “For what?” Gray asked, curious.

  The fiery man shook his head. “I wish I knew…”

  “Where is she now?” Darius questioned
.

  Zane’s dagger rasped at the stubble on his jaw and he sighed. “I asked around and no one has seen Arbiter Fera since the battle on the sands. It seems she’s gone as well… for now.” Suddenly, the stone figurine in Hannah’s hand burst with a tiny flame. Hanna gave a surprised squawk, and then smiled in success. “You did it,” her brother said approvingly.

  “Well, we can’t all be as talented as you with fire,” she said. “A talent I can’t believe you hid from me all this time. But mind you, I’ll get there, and then watch out.”

  Gray was having trouble focusing on the letter, his mind a churning cauldron.

  “Well if Ayva’s not playing, care to join us, my poetic chum?” Darius asked.

  Gray looked up, realizing he was being spoken to. “Soon, I promise,” he said, then scratched his temple, trying to think of another word for ‘belittled.’ Disparaged, his memories said.

  “Almost done with that letter?” Zane questioned.

  “Almost,” he answered.

  “You didn’t forget to add what I told you, did you?” the fiery man replied, humorless. “She owes me.”

  Gray chuckled without looking up. “How could I possibly forget?”

  In the corner of his eye, Zane nodded, satisfied. “As long as the Lost Ones are safe, the rest is hers.”

  Hannah spoke, “Wait, there’s still one more thing I don’t get… With Darkeye dead, does that mean the Darkeye clan is no more?” Again distracted, Gray looked up from his letter, half-listening.

  “At the least now it seems they’re leaderless,” Darius said, puffing smoke rings from his pipe. “Good riddance, I say, for it should be a long time until Farbs is troubled by their ilk.”

  Gray hesitated as he remembered Faye and the look in her eyes. He wasn’t so sure, but he kept his silence, glad for the look of hope and peace in his friends. A fire crackled in the nearby hearth, banishing the chill in the room, promising security. And all seemed to settle into its right place.

  Ayva rose and moved outside.

  “What’s with her?” Darius asked. “I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

  Shrugging, Gray set down his pen and followed. He found her on a large stone balcony that overlooked the Citadel’s grounds. Again, he saw they flowed with servants, Neophytes, Devari, red-robed Reavers, and its flock of Lost Ones—men, women and children. Life. It had returned to the Citadel. Beyond that was Farbs. The desert city glowed in the light of the fading sun, which sat on the horizon like a golden flame. A breeze flowed over them, tousling Gray’s cloak and playing with Ayva’s short-cropped hair. The wind fell down the steep black walls and sifted into the crowded streets full of life, nighttime settling over Farbs.

  The people are safe, he thought again, content.

  Ayva held the twisted black metal railing as he approached. He debated using the ki, but refrained. Instead, he touched her arm. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I was worried…”

  “No,” she said and twisted, wearing an unexpected smile. “I’m not all right. I’m terrified, and yet… I’ve never felt more alive.” She looked away, north—over the clay buildings and colorful tents, into the desert and beyond.

  Vaster, he thought.

  “Vaster,” she uttered, voicing his thoughts aloud. “The Great Kingdom of Sun. I can feel it, Gray. I swear I can almost see its gleaming walls shining like a jewel, those turrets of shimmering glass.” She turned to him, grabbing his hand in her soft palms. “Can you?”

  He only nodded, slightly. Again, his heart thumped against his ribcage. “It’s waiting for you.”

  “For us all,” she replied.

  “What’s waiting for us?” Darius’ voice echoed from behind.

  Quickly, Ayva let Gray’s hand drop as the others came from the wide doorway onto the large balcony. “Adventure,” Zane said, hand upon his blade, his wide and muscular frame nearly twice that of Darius.

  Hannah spoke, wiping her hands from the stone dust. “You can’t be thinking of joining them, can you, Zane? How can we leave the Lost Ones?”

  “There’s nothing for us here anymore,” Zane said. “The Lost Ones are safe now. I wish I could have found that traitorous little cur who nearly sent me to my death, but his little tip ensured that the Lost Ones will never be left cold and hungry again.”

  She nodded and huddled closer to her brother. “Well, it doesn’t matter where I am as long as I’m at your side.”

  “You’re both coming,” Darius stated firmly.

  “Who says I care about you?” Zane asked.

  Darius scoffed. “And here I thought we were becoming fast friends over Elements. Is it because I beat you too many times?”

  “You beat me?” Zane asked, amused. “You have twigs between your ears.”

  Darius interrupted him. “Psh, who are you talking to, fire for brains?”

  Zane growled. Suddenly Darius yelped, grabbing his rear in pain. “What were you saying?” the fiery man asked.

  “I changed my mind. Feel free to stay,” Darius said.

  “Try and stop me from coming,” Zane replied.

  “Only too gladly,” Darius retorted stepping towards him, but Ayva interjected, calming the two.

  Gray watched them all, as if from a distance—Ayva the light of reason, Zane the fire of passion, Darius with his ever-changing nature. Sun, Fire, and Leaf. Each balancing the other. It was like watching Omni, Seth, and Maris all over again. And in that moment, he knew the Ronin really had never died.

  “We’re going,” Gray declared suddenly, heart thumping in his chest in anticipation. “All of us.” They turned to him, and he twisted looking to Vaster—past the golden flame of the setting sun, towards the Golden City. “It’s time to find our brothers.”

  Epilogue

  “MISTRESS HITOMI!” A GIRL CALLED, RACING down the half-constructed steps that were still missing their railing. Hitomi grimaced inwardly. How she still missed The Dipping Tsugi’s railing that was polished to a ruby glow by thousands of hands. A testament of a well-loved inn.

  It’s strange what things one misses, and coincidently doesn’t, Hitomi thought. Her first thought was for that strange, affable hermit… Karil said he was safe, but she knew he was deep in enemy territory. From what she could tell, or at least had heard, Eldas was the last place to be in this magical world. But that gruff old hermit had surprises up his sleeve. She knew Mura wouldn’t die so easily.

  “Hitomi!” the young girl called again, leaping the last stairs into the mostly empty common room, save for the hearth made from large polished river stones—the only thing finished in the large chamber. A hearth is the heart of an inn. “He’s coming back soon! Just like he said he’d be!”

  Hitomi had been watching from the corner of her eye. At last, she looked up from her ledger and saw the men surrounding her—elves, she corrected. Strong and dutiful they were, and not so surprisingly handy when it came to woodworking. “Slow down, girl,” she instructed, putting a hand to Piper’s arm. The girl was one of the villagers who’d survived the chaos, a refugee of Daerval. “What are you talking about? Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of the Aviary? And who’s coming back now? With all this ruckus, it better be the devil himself.”

  “Gray!” the girl exclaimed.

  Hitomi raised a dubious eyebrow. “Piper, has Balder been putting tales into your ear again?” She knew she should put the man to work on her inn, for he was incredibly talented, for a drunk, but he’d taken more to being the resident mischief-maker and storyteller of the camp. “I told you not to talk with that fool, anymore.”

  Stuffing her hands on her narrow hips, Piper shook an admonishing finger. “Hitomi, you really ought to be nicer to Balder,” the girl chided. “It’s not very polite, you know. Besides, he only says nice things about you.”

  “I doubt that,” Hitomi snorted, holding back a scowl. But it was the girl’s attitude and appearance that made her frown. Piper had taken on a whole new look recently. Not two days prior, the girl had chop
ped her pigtails off trying to look older. Her raven black hair was now strewn in a short, edgy mess. She wore white pants and a white shirt. If that wasn’t enough, she even wore a makeshift gray haori. A haori was a cloth vest—what the Ronin were said to wear in the stories. On the breast and back of the vest she’d painted a symbol of wind she’d copied from one of Hitomi’s books. It was safe to say that Piper had developed a bit of a crush on Gray since the aftermath. Not to mention, her tall-tales were growing quite infamous around the camp. Stories concerning the Ronin. “Piper, if this is another one of your stories, I’ll make sure you’re scrubbing pans until those pretty little hands are more wrinkled than my own.”

  “It’s not, I swear!” the girl protested, and handed over a crisp letter with a red wax seal that was broken. Piper winced guiltily, wringing her hands. “This came in from the Aviary… I might have opened it.”

  Hitomi grumbled, but then saw the marking on the red wax.

  It was the Citadel’s sigil with all eight elements, the red flame brightest for Farbs, the Great Kingdom of Fire.

  Quickly, she read it and stiffened.

  “Turn it over,” Piper said, eyes wide as she teetered on her toes.

  On the front was an etched symbol, not stamped but drawn meticulously by hand.

  “See?!” Piper exclaimed, breathless, “It’s him!”

  “Spirits take me,” she cursed softly.

  Piper tugged on her arm. “So? Can we go already?”

  Hitomi looked up, in a half-daze. The girl looked ready to leap out of her skin. Despite being on the short side of fourteen summers in age and as skinny as a well-picked bone, Hitomi doubted she could stop the girl. “Yes, yes, let’s see what this is about. I suppose the inn can wait.”

  Piper giggled in glee and darted for the gaping entry where the doors were still missing.

  “See to the Aviary,” Hitomi informed the elves. “If the queen is having me run letters for her then I will see it properly constructed as a center for communication. If she wants an army ready for war, then intelligence, which is all too underrated, comes first.”