Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (26 page)

He sat at a bar with Ayva at his side and pretended to drink his frothing ale. Gray sniffed it again. It smelled sour like milk gone bad. He didn’t know much about ale, but he presumed sour wasn’t a good thing.

On a rickety stage, a woman plucked at a strange, seven-stringed instrument and sang. It was an odd up and down melody, though enchanting, and he listened half-heartedly.

“The rusty trail of time,
It passes on and on,
Till we forget what’s come an’ gone:

Of battles fought
Of love lost and won,
Of heroes gained and villains made,

But bards, they do remember—
In moonlit taverns they spin their tales,
A history that winds, left and right it goes,

But always back it comes, to tell of fabled foes:
Those legends, myths, and enchanted men
Who fight for what was right,

But all were lost to darkness,
And Kingdoms retreated to lofty walls
To stow away their hatred.

And the rusty trail of time
Continues on and on—
Till we forget what’s come an’ gone… ”

Her voice drifted on, and despite the intriguing subject matter—he knew what
legends
the song was referring to and which name it was pointedly avoiding—Gray’s attention turned. Even with the time of day, the tables were packed. Men, big and small, sat huddled over their drinks, wearing dingy clothes and even dirtier faces. They cast wary glances. A few of their eyes lingered, but not on
him
. Ayva ignored it mostly, but Gray felt anger brewing at those looks. Casually, he touched Morrowil, reassuring himself.

“How’s he doing?” Ayva asked.

Gray glanced over his shoulder to see Darius chatting with a man twice his size, both in width and height. The man leaned forward, his chair straining as he listened to the rogue talk. Gray reached into his mind, drawing upon the nexus. It wavered and sputtered—that black cavity was still there, as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Tentatively, Gray extracted a thread, praying it wouldn’t shatter. The thread came, but slowly, and he twisted it into a familiar spell and reached out. He cupped the air before their mouths and pulled it toward himself.

Words floated, sifting into his ear.

“Well, I can tell you one thing for certain. I’d wager all my coin that a procession like that is hiding something. And trust me, I know a thing or two about hiding.”

“Is that so…” the large man said dubiously. “How do you figure?”

“Obvious, ain’t it? It’s the oldest trick in the book! Make a flashy show to keep the dull-eyed crowds smiling, all to conceal the rabbit under the hat. The buried treasure. But I just wonder where they would try to hole up something like that,” Darius said.

Gray knew what he was talking about. Among other unusual rumors, they’d heard of a strange procession, more grand than anything the citizens had ever seen before. It had everyone in a buzz, questioning: What was it about? Were they hiding something? Who was the man with the black coat? Gray didn’t care about any of that. He continued to listen, knowing the rogue was leading the conversation towards information.

“Better to not wonder,” the big man hissed, suddenly nervous. “I don’t want to know what Reavers be hiding.”

“No?” Darius asked. “I suppose that’s smart, avoiding danger and all. But I can’t help but think… something they’d take all that effort to hide must be worth its weight in gold. Dice, a man could buy Eldas itself and still have more than a few coins to rub together.” Darius rubbed his chin as if pondering.
“I only wonder where something like that would be held…”

At last, the man looked thoughtful. “You’re clever, friend. Too clever for these parts. Now cut to the chase. I’ll help you if I can. What do you want?”

Darius took a sip of his beer and his mouth twisted from the sour taste.
I wasn’t wrong
, Gray thought. “The Citadel,” the rogue said softly.

The man’s face darkened. “Better face a Devari in a duel than answer questions about the Citadel,” the man said. “Sorry friend, you’ll have no help from me, or from anyone else if they’ve got half a brain.”

Darius grumbled and rose. “Thanks,
friend
.”

“Bit of advice, if I might,” the man said, gripping Darius’ arm. The rogue gestured for him to speak, but Gray knew that look. It was the same one he had before Darius had pinned a snake in the desert in the blink of an eye. “Word on the street is that the Citadel is not right of late. Something is happening. Dark events, I tell you. Whispers of Reavers turning to the dark, and the Citadel is…”

“Is what?”

“War is coming,” the man breathed. Raising a ponderous brow, the big man let the words linger, then pushed his girth away from the table and stalked to the tavern’s door, letting in a flurry of cold wind, before it swung close with a thud.

“Gray?” Ayva asked, touching his arm. “You have that look again…”

Gray shook his head, returning.

Darius neared as he downed the rest of his ale, and then slammed the flagon on the bar. “Another please,” he said, gesturing to the lanky tavern owner.

“I don’t know how you can manage to drink any of this swill,” Ayva said, brushing imaginary dirt upon the bar. “It’s a shame this place is even allowed to exist. Really, it’s a disgrace on the name of inns and taverns everywhere. My father would never allow such a thing in The Golden Horn.”

Darius merely shivered. “Honestly, after news like I just heard, I’m willing to drink anything.”

“What’d he say? Does he know where Gray’s grandfather is being kept?”

“No,” Gray answered.

Darius choked mid-gulp, spitting out his new drink. “
Gah!
Will you cut it with the eavesdropping, Gray? Dice, it’s uncomfortable as is. Not to mention, your leering is going to make these fools suspicious. And as for what he said, it was the same as before, only worse. The Citadel seems to be stirring. People are afraid.”

Gray cleared his throat.

“Is that all?” Ayva asked.

“He mentioned war,” Darius admitted.

Ayva swallowed. “Could it be true?”

Gray was silent.
War…
Part of him thought Farhaven would be different, that a land of magic would have evolved beyond such things. But he knew it was a silly notion. There would always be war where greed and power flourished.

“I’m not sure,” the rogue said, “I’m as likely to trust a newt as I am anyone in this gutter. Now come on, we’re getting a few too many looks, and this place has served its purpose. Let’s find another.” Darius was right. The leering men were now openly staring, and several of them rose to finger daggers at their waists and flash hungry grins—revealing missing or rotting teeth. Gray moved for his sword when he felt a hand on his wrist. He turned to see Darius. “It’s not worth it,” said the rogue with a furrowed brow. “Your grandfather, remember Gray? Not Ayva’s honor.”

Gray released his breath, pulling his hand away. “You’re right. No use dying over fools.” Were the words Kirin’s or his? It was becoming difficult to tell.

“Precisely!” Darius said. “Or better yet, how about just no dying?” Ayva looked at them curious, but was too far to hear. Darius threw an arm around Gray’s shoulders, then flung a few coins he’d gambled for on the bar. With his other arm, he grabbed Ayva jovially. But as they left, Gray put himself between the men and Ayva, hand resting heavily on Morrowil’s hilt.

Outside, light blinded Gray and he shielded his eyes.

It was still midday, but after the dimly lit tavern, it felt like they’d just stepped out onto the surface of the sun. Upon Darius’ advice, they’d found a stable for their cormacs at a nicer part of town a while back, paid for it with Darius’ gambling winnings, and had resorted to walking. Whatever helped them blend in, he thought, as a pair of men cast them sidelong glances.

They entered a dark red building with white letters that spelled The Bloody Axe. Again, they found nothing. There were fearful whispers, but the woman’s mouth shut as soon as the word “Citadel” passed Darius’ mouth.

The Swine’s Tale.

Nothing.

The Beggar’s Hand.

Again, nothing save for the threat of a dagger in Darius’ back.

As they left a rickety building with barred windows and a sign that read The Giant’s Gizzard, Gray grabbed Darius’ arm, pulling them to a halt. Frustration boiled inside of him. It was now nearly night time.
Hours wasted and we’ve gotten nowhere,
he thought
.
His other hand was a fist in his pocket, clutching the dust from the former pendant. He watched as a few men and women wearing black and red rag-like clothing moved around them.

“What is it?” Darius asked, looking worn and equally frustrated, and more than a little drunk.

“You’ve done better than Ayva or I could ever do, but this isn’t working,” Gray whispered fiercely.

“No, you’re right,” the rogue agreed.

“Time is wearing thin, and thus far we’ve only found out that he’s being kept in the Citadel. We’ve still no blasted idea
where
he is inside the keep, or even
how
to get in… Let’s face it, this is turning into a lost cause.” He felt a thread of despair weave its way into his voice.

“What do we do?” Ayva asked.

Darius gripped Gray’s forearm. “We can’t give up yet,” he said. “We have to keep trying.”

He held the rogue’s gaze and felt some of the mantle of darkness slough from his mind. He heaved a sigh of relief. The look of perseverance and confidence on Darius’ visage gave him hope. Gray remembered Morrowil as well. He could not give into despair or the sword would feed upon it—
I will never be Kail
. “All right,” he said. “Though there has to be a better way. At this point, we are more likely to get stabbed than to get information.”

“I’ve got one last idea,” Darius said. “The darker the establishment, the more they seem to be willing to reveal about the Citadel. But we’ve been far too tame.”

“What are you proposing?” Ayva asked hesitantly.

Darius didn’t smile, but his eyes took on a wild look and he answered, “I’m saying it’s time we find the most foul, most ruthless inn in all of Farhaven and hope someone has the guts to speak.”

“I don’t like the sound of this. That just sounds like an easier, faster way to get stabbed,” Ayva replied.

“No, he’s right,” Gray said. “It’s a long shot, but it’s our best bet. One last chance, but if we’re doing this, let’s not go halfway. It’ll have to be the darkest, deepest hole we can find.”

Darius gripped his arm with a mischievous grin. “Deal.”

“This is a fool’s plan,” Ayva said fearfully.

“Well, then it’s perfect,” Darius answered and started forward.

* * *

They wove deeper and deeper, night settling in around them. They passed buildings that only seemed to stand because they leaned against one another for support, most of their windows boarded or shattered like a brawler’s broken teeth. Darius’ eyes flashed, watching every shadow in every nook. He saw Gray was doing the same, but he didn’t know where to look, not like Darius. His fist was white-knuckled around Morrowil’s hilt.

The man’s white-knight routine is going to get us killed!
And yet… He felt a goofy smile crease his face. He admired, no, he liked that about Gray! That sense of honor and morality was reassuring in a world gone mad. And the world
was
mad. But not to Gray. To Gray the world was black and white,
good
and
bad
—a comforting thought to the truth of an uncaring world full of gray-matter.

Gray-mattered.
He giggled at his own inner pun, feeling light-headed and drunk once more. Trying to sound sober, Darius touched Gray’s hand, pulling it away once more. “Careful. A threat of a fire could burn the whole house down.” He wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. He was drunk, but it sounded reasonable. A spark could cause an inferno? Maybe that was the phrase. Regardless, Gray understood and removed his hand, but he still watched the shadows.

He was right too. Threats were everywhere, but not where they expected. Gray’s eyes passed over a bald man with a toothless grin—but Darius saw the man’s stumble lead him purposively towards Ayva.