Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (23 page)

Ezrah remained silent, his despair still welling, and beneath that… pain, excruciating
and sharp. His body pleaded for him to end it all, but to that too, he remained stubbornly silent and unyielding. “I see that look in your eyes, Arbiter,” Sithel continued. “It’s the same look they all get. None seem to care much about life without the spark. The stronger the spark, the greater they wish for death. Yet I’m surprised by you…” his gaze narrowed, as if trying to comprehend. “You would think, with your level of strength, you would be practically begging me for death.”

“You… first…”
Ezrah managed.
Oh gods, why does it hurt so much? Isn’t the spark gone?

Sithel laughed, slightly. “Amusing. Well, perhaps you are stronger than the others in more than just the spark.”

“What do you want?” Ezrah breathed. He was a limp weight in the Nameless’ grip, and he barely felt their knife-like fingers clawing into his arms.

“It’s not so much what I want, but what my master wants… No, what he
will
have. I will attempt to break you, but you are just one piece of the puzzle, a small means to a much greater end,” Sithel spoke, rolling the voidstone from hand to hand. “With this finally in our grasp, we will be able to take even the most powerful and bring them to their knees, cowering. But again, even that is just one small thread in the fabric that
he
weaves.”

“What does he seek?” Ezrah pressed.

“Dominion.”

“Why?” he croaked.

Sithel snorted. “Does it matter? All that matters is that he
will
have it.”

Ezrah knew this had been coming. He’d read it in the prophecies, seen it from every angle, felt the darkness rising over the centuries. Even before he helped Kirin, now Gray, flee the Citadel and run to Daerval, he knew this was coming. But to see the pieces unfolding before him? It was too soon.

“We know you’ve been plotting against him, seeking to rectify the darkness he spreads, but you are merely a weed. The Kage—”

“—The Kage are dead,” Ezrah snapped. “A failed plot of your master.”

Sithel’s eyes glinted darkly. “Ah, but the Kage were just the beginning, Arbiter. A mere torch that announced
his
hand. A hand that will set the world aflame. And just as the voidstone drains the spark from any but the one who holds it,
he
will drain the world until there is nothing left. Without the Ronin, there is no one to stand against him now.”

Ezrah’s eyes flashed, betraying him. He looked away, but it was too late.

Sithel laughed, throwing his head back. It filled the brightly lit hallway. “You are a fool. Again you think to hide what we already know. All along he’s seen your plans, allowing you to continue, but only recently you moved too boldly.”

Recently…
Ezrah’s mind clicked, recalling the boy.

Sithel gave another thin-lipped smile. “When you made your move in the marketplace, he decided it was time. We will find the boy soon, one way or another. It is already in motion. Your plan to reunite the reborn Ronin is futile. It will fail, just as surely as you have failed.”

Ezrah felt the last dredges of his life being sapped. He suddenly saw it—an essence in the air, flowing from him into the sapphire orb.
His life.
“The prophecy…” he choked past his pain.
“It will… see you undone. There is… always a way.”

Again Sithel cackled. “You mean the Knife’s Edge? Not this time, old man. My master did not anticipate that boy before or your tenacity. But this time, it is all accounted for now. This time, the prophecy is irrefutable.”

Pain consumed him, becoming too much.
“The world… will know…”

“The other Great Kingdoms?” Sithel asked calmly. “They will be just as powerless.”

“I…”
His vision began to fade.

“The best part is that no one will know you are gone. You keep to yourself in places no one can go,” Sithel explained with a laugh. “You are the second most powerful wielder of the spark in all the world, and no one will even miss you.”

And there, Sithel was wrong. Even as all turned to black, and agony seared his mind and body, Ezrah had one last thought, one last flickering hope. With the last bit of his power, before he had lost the spark completely, he had sent a message. Now that he was close, the presence, like a small knot in his mind, had returned, despite the pendant being broken…

Gray was there.

Save me,
Ezrah had sent.

* * *

Gray was standing amid a small stone room. The wall was heavily curved, and based on the smaller neatly joined stonework…
I’m high in a tower,
Kirin whispered, familiar with keeps and battlements.

Nearby was a small wood board with glass figurines.
A game,
he realized. It looked like someone was still playing. But where were they? Against the far wall was a large table of strange white wood, polished to a glow. Aside from the walls filled with books, and a soft rug beneath his boots, the room was empty. Outside, rain fell lightly.

“Where am I?” But Kirin was silent now.

The room was very familiar, yet when he tried to remember, nothing came. He moved to touch a figurine on the board. A squat orange piece that looked like a flame. His hand reached out and—

Gray!

His mind flashed, something sparking in his head like a firework. Not pain, but urgency. He twisted, but saw nothing, only tomes and a wooden door.
Maybe it came from outside?
he wondered, moving to the door, but with his first step, the world flickered. With his next, the stone around him crumbled, falling away.

Air and noise, time and space distorted as he fell into a void of black. Gray felt his mind ripping. He shouted, but nothing sounded.
This is a dream,
he thought forcefully, forcing himself to wake but, still, darkness buried all sight. He felt as if he were moving, wind coursing around him with the speed of flight. As if he was being dragged
somewhere
.

At last, it settled, and Gray saw light.

He focused, as if peering through a tempest of wind.

Figures stood in a white hall.

All but one wore pitch-black armor. Shadows breathed from their lithe frames, and Gray’s blood froze. In their clawed grips, a man hung half-dead. Straggled silver hair fell about his face. Those features… They were familiar, yet not.

Hunched over him, was a seedy-looking man in a black coat. Gray watched as the man limped forward, and his pale, sickly complexion, cast in ominous blue, twisted in satisfaction. He spoke, thin lips curled in a cruel smile. Gray tried to listen, but noises jumbled together as if he listened through a tunnel of wind. In the man’s hand, a bright blue light pulsated.

The nearly dead man looked up, eyes staring into his soul.

“Save me,” the man whispered, but his lips didn’t move.

Gray felt terror in the sending.

Flash.

Gray was standing in a chamber. It was the same one from his vision in the desert, but this time it was clearer. The room was circular and windowless. Four men and four women stood in a circle around… something… Gray needed to get closer to see. He moved, walking without walking. He saw the body. The tortured man. Gray’s skin crawled. It was the same man. He was stripped down, brown and white robes pulled to his waist. Red marks flayed his body as if from a whip, and his silver hair fell across his face. Beneath him, a star was inlaid on the marble floor in black and red glass with eight points. On each point was a symbol, and on each symbol one of the robed men or women stood. Even through the blurry, tempest-filled vision, he saw their looks of concentration. Horror filled him.

The old man’s eyes were closed, his screams now silenced.

Was he… dead?

Gray…
The word came, faint and fractured and anguished. Gray clutched his heart. How? How could he bear such agony?
Who
was this man?
Remember…
The man breathed, and something sparked in his mind.

Memories.

Pain flooded through Gray. He fell to his knees, in front of the man who was being tortured, but in his mind Gray was remembering the past. He opened his eyes, seeing through a haze of tears, and he had one single, burning thought.
At the same time, wind began to fissure around him, crackling. The circular room and scarlet-robed men and women distorted like wet paint running, and then finally it shattered.

The vision burst. Gray jolted upright. His breathing was ragged, and he held his heart, still feeling pain and sorrow spiraling through him as reality settled back around him.

The desert was quiet.

Sweat ran down his temples, mingling with his hair. The night was still cold, but Gray threw back his covers. Nearby, Ayva and Darius were still sleeping, though the rogue’s snores rumbled like rocks down a hillside. Gray touched the ground as if to reaffirm it, forcing his thoughts back to the moment and away from the nightmare. But he knew it was more than just a nightmare. Just as he knew who that man was.

“Ezrah…” he whispered.

Save me…
The words lingered in the air, like a faint echo.

And Gray answered, “I’m coming for you.”

A Citizen of Farbs

D
ARIUS WOKE AND WORDLESSLY BEGAN PACKING
up the camp. There wasn’t much to do and, soon enough, he was brushing down Mirkal and preparing to head out. The others were still asleep. He’d have to wake them up soon. He looked over his shoulder and saw Ayva stir. She looked so peaceful just lying there—her mouth parted slightly, hair draped across her delicate features.
Why am I thinking like that?
Well, she was beautiful, just… not his type.

He looked to Gray. He slept like a stone, as if dead. Even his brows were bunched, as if he were
always
deep in thought.
Even while sleeping?
A man has to let go
sometimes
. There was a rustle, and, when he spun, Ayva stood before him. When had she awoken? He looked down, and realized she was still in her shift. Blood rushed to Darius’ head. That thin white cloth didn’t hide much. He could see her outline clearly, slender body with curves and all. He gulped. “Ayva…” he breathed. She put a finger to his lips and pressed closer. Her finger was warm, or was it cold? He couldn’t tell.

He looked over her shoulder. Gray was still asleep.

“He doesn’t have to know,” she whispered, brazenly, though a bashful spot of red colored her cheeks.

All words fled Darius’ mind. What was wrong with him? A beautiful girl was standing before him. Nothing was wrong with that, was it?

“Stop thinking so much,” she said.

What
was
wrong with him? That was
his
line
.
He growled in reply. “I’m not. It’s just, this is… unexpected.”

“Isn’t that your style?” she asked.

He smiled wryly. “Maybe a little. But…”

She drew near, silencing him, pulling her body against his.

Warm.

Reaching out, he gripped her waist, accepting her.

A sharp pain pierced his side, then Ayva, Gray, and all else faded abruptly. Darius’ eyes snapped open. Light blinded him, and he grunted. He looked up and saw Gray’s face smiling down on him. “Good morning.”

Darius groaned.
A dream?
“Why’d you kick me?”

“That was me,” a soft voice said. Looking into the light of the sun, Ayva’s face slowly resolved itself as she blocked out the burning orb. Her lips curved in amusement. “Did I break you from a pleasant dream?”

“I…” he faltered.

“You were grinning. It must have been good,” Gray said.

“It
was
pleasant.”
More or less,
he added inwardly, feeling confused and still trying to slow his racing heart.

Gray laughed and moved away.

“Wake up, Darius. You have to see what Gray has done,” Ayva said excitedly. She was wearing a strange get up. Lately she wore a split riding skirt, but now she had on fitted tan pants and a soft white shirt. Over it was a golden jacket with a few obscure symbols upon its hem. It seemed familiar.

“What’s with the getup?” he asked.

“I’m a citizen of Farbs, just like you’re about to be,” she answered, twirling in display, “Like it?”

“It… suits you,” he admitted.