Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (3 page)

Absence,
he thought curiously.

The room had grown quiet. A stillness settled that he felt to his ancient bones. Turning back, he saw the monarchs’ faces, hard or soft, impatient or serene, all proud, and all anticipating.

As the founder of this meeting, all were waiting for his word.

The Patriarch threaded bits of light and flesh into his voice so his words soared. “As the rulers of the lands, we are upholders of all that Farhaven stands for, but the peace and serenity we have treasured and even taken for granted these last many years is about to change. Evil is rising. A darkness takes its form, sinuous and pervasive, but still cloaked in shadows…”

He raised his hands and orbs of fire appeared in the air, and the hundreds of mirrors burst with light, banishing any trace of darkness in the golden room.
“
Now is the time of vigilance, for watchful eyes to turn to your own fair borders
and
beyond. Now is the time for unity. Scattered and broken from the Lieon, we are a family who has lost its brothers and sisters… Seria of Water, Narim of Moon, Lander of Stone, and Yronia of Metal… Their losses have made us as reclusive as a widow, sheltering ourselves behind our high walls, but we must see ourselves whole once more—for, broken, we will fall.
That is why I have gathered you upon this day… a day that marks the tides of change and the eve of a new age,” he intoned grandly.

Each ruler hung on his every word.

And the Patriarch smiled, gamely. “It is time.”

Facing Death

Z
ANE COULDN’T COOL THE FIRE IN
his veins. Nor did he want to. They had stolen everything from him, and he would take it back, piece by piece. The thought resounded in his head like a tolling bell, and he gripped the gold coin purse tighter as he
tore through the desert back alleys, ignoring looks and pushing those who got in his way. He turned a corner and ran face to face with noise, color, and the crush of bodies.

A procession.

Perfect,
the young thief thought. Sheathing his blade, Zane slipped into the folds of the crowds. Sweat and dust filled his nose. The heat of bodies was stifling, but he continued, moving past eager looking men, women, and children. They ignored him, oblivious to the danger he was in. They were all too busy watching the lavish affair in the main thoroughfare beyond. The people of Farbs loved such spectacles. Reavers, Devari, and their ilk, while greatly feared, were also respected like royalty.
Royalty who could incinerate your body to ash for looking at them the wrong way.

All knew it was forbidden to enter a procession in progress.

Only once had he seen a man take a step into the streets, and a Devari, emotionless, had cut him down faster than a cutpurse reaching for a coin. Zane had seen death, but this was different.
Had it been out of rage or even greed, he’d have understood at least—for both emotions he’d seen in men for as long as he could remember. That moment however… It was the coldest thing he’d ever seen, as if the Devari were cutting a dead branch. A man no more flesh and blood than a hunk of stubborn wood born for kindling.
The procession had ambled on as if nothing had happened, the dirt street soaking up the man’s blood like a thirsty patron.

All in all, Zane didn’t care for the spectacle one bit. He caught glimpses of camels, horses, and bare-chested, muscled men carrying a lecarta among other impressive sights—none of it mattered. He cut a path through the crowd, spotting an alley just as the masses began to stir. Looking back, he saw movement behind him.

Grom was pushing a fat merchant out of the way while Salamander stalked behind him. Zane saw his eyes. An unquenchable fury roiled in that dark gaze. Immediately, Zane ducked, but he knew it was too late—Salamander had seen him.
Blood and dust
,
how is the man not dead?
He cursed.
He can thread,
he reminded himself—a fact that meant his death if the foul man caught up with him again. Zane thrust himself through the sweaty mess of bodies. Staying in a half-crouch, as fast as he could, he scurried, hoping not to stir the crowds and give away his position.

For a brief moment, Zane rose to gather his bearings, and saw movement from the opposite direction.
More of Darkeye’s men,
he knew. He felt it in his gut. They were like arrows flying from all directions, and he was the haystack. Behind him, he saw the bustling procession. Red cloth ribbons waved in the dry air. A band of musicians played flutes, drums, zirods, shambles, and tarzas, ushering the display forward.

He took a heavy breath, eyeing the rumbling ground beneath him.

A calm came over him, clashing with his always-thundering heart.

They will capture and kill me,
he realized.

If it were just him, he’d risk it. But he had to think about Hannah. They’d come for her too. They’d been pilfering from Darkeye’s Clan for months.
They will want blood, and they won’t stop with me.
But he was cornered with no way out. Worse yet, if he moved into the thoroughfare, he would be cut down. The crowds crashed around him, and he could see Salamander’s snide, wrathful face bobbing over the heads, nearing with the others at his back.

Something rough grabbed his arm. He turned to see Snaggle, another one of Darkeye’s lackeys. The man’s foul tooth stuck out over his bottom lip. He wore ragged strips of cloth. They hung loose on his bony frame while a tight cap hugged his skull, wisps of hair sticking out from underneath. Zane held the man’s eyes and slyly reached for his blade.

“Ah-ah, I wouldn’t,” Snaggle said, showing off his awful grin as he flashed a glimpse of his long, rusty dagger—curved like his tooth—from within the pockets of his clothes. The man was hideous, but he wasn’t slow. He’d cut Zane to ribbons before his hand would touch his blade, and then he’d leave him bleeding out on the dry desert street. “Where’s the money you stole, you little rat?”

Zane’s fist clenched tighter around the coin purse. “It goes to the people. To those who need it. The real lost souls of this city.”

“Fool,” Snaggle said with a disgusted sneer. “Don’t you know? You fight or you die. It’s that simple. What you’re doing, protecting and suckling those sad men and women, is wrong. It goes against the code of the street. They don’t deserve life.” He scoffed. “You of all people should know that, little rat. It’s the code of the thief.”

Zane ignored the man, glancing back. Salamander was drawing closer. Zane felt the noose closing around his neck. His heart was now thundering. There was nothing he could do. It was all over
.
Die here, or be taken back and let Hannah suffer Salamander’s awful wrath
.
There was no other option now, and with his back pressed to the procession, there was nowhere to run. He felt true despair rise in the pit of his stomach, overwhelming the roar of the crowds.

Unless…
He glanced at the long train.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He visibly slumped, letting go of the rage that always boiled inside him. His head lowered.

“Ah, we’ve finally broken you! I didn’t think it was possible… It seems in the end, you were nothing but a scared rat that needed to be flushed. Salamander will be glad to see the smug fire wiped…”

Zane stopped listening as Snaggle’s grip loosened in victory. He smiled as Salamander pushed through the last of the crowds. Zane looked up. He felt fire and pride rush inside him. Snaggle choked on whatever words he was saying upon seeing his eyes. Zane pulled his arm from the man’s now-loosened grip and leapt into the street.

To his death.

* * *

Zane jumped before the caravan.

A collective rush of gasps, like a gust of wind, sounded from the crowds as the giant procession came to a screeching halt. Zane could only hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, but beneath that, he sensed the silence.

The musicians had halted their playing, the dancers no longer danced, and the crowds watched in frozen horror.

He stood like a statue—head high and hand far from his blade.

Before him was the largest, most opulent lecarta he’d ever seen. In shape it was little more than a box on poles, but its sides were inlaid with thick gold while silver curled from its four corners like thorns. Anything that wasn’t covered in gold was draped in dark red cloth, the foreboding color of the Citadel. The cloth was a thick, rich weave, which made his own clothes feel like rags hanging from his frame.

Carrying the lecarta were nine shirtless, heavily muscled men who wore baggy red pants—their dark skin was oiled and glistened in the light of the burning midday sun. Zane was no slouch, but each man’s arm was the size of his thigh. But that was not his fear…

Closer still, were two men wearing nondescript clothes of brown and tan to blend in with their surroundings. Unlike normal guards, they needed no armor. Upon their backs were cloaks depicting two crossed swords.

The cloak of a Devari.

The two men held strange postures, heads down with knees heavily bent, and shoulders turned.
Fighting stances
, his street-wise mind told him—the one that had kept him alive. It always warned him before imminent death. The Devari eyed his dagger. Without hesitation, he reached to throw it away. As his hand touched the handle, he felt steel before his throat. He looked up into the coldest eyes he’d ever seen—frozen blue orbs.

“One fool move upon another,” the man whispered.

Somehow the Devari had crossed the span of twenty paces faster than he could blink. Zane closed his eyes, realizing what a hair-brained move that had been. He remained still, aside from slowly retracting his hand. “I was only trying to toss it…”

“A foolish move before a Devari. Your hand would never touch the blade.”

He swallowed. It caused the blade to bite deeper, slightly cutting his throat. He spoke softly but urgently, “I mean no harm.”

The Devari’s hard angled face seemed to judge him. That long nose, slanted eyes, and sharp jaw tilted, as if seeing
into
him. Zane felt a strange chill, and the hair on his arms stood on end.
Threading?
he wondered.
But how?
Devari didn’t have the spark, not like Reavers and Arbiters at least—those who could manifest the innate spark in all life and then
thread
to extract elements from the world, anything from fire to flesh, and wield them as powerful weapons. To some it was simply called magic. But he had heard of something called the ki, a power of the Devari to sense another’s emotions.

The chill left Zane, like icy fingers gripping his heart only to pull away. It was unnerving, but he didn’t resist.

The Devari spoke at last. “You speak truth. I sense your fear. Curious… One would never know looking at the fire in those strange eyes of yours.” He sheathed his blade, backing away.

Zane remembered the crowds. They all held their breath, watching as if they had just witnessed a miracle.

“Go now before I change my mind,” the Devari said.

Nodding his silent thanks, Zane moved when there was a commotion. He didn’t waste time second-guessing his dumb luck. Suddenly, he felt his limbs stiffen, a frigid chill entering his bones, his blood cooling. He stumbled and fell, his face hitting the dry desert ground. He sucked in dust, trying to rise, but it hurt to move. Every muscle felt aflame, as if being prodded with a thousand needles. Still, he cocked his head, peering over his shoulder, and he saw a fearsome sight.

Six women and six men on horseback approached. They wore scarlet robes. The robes of a Reaver. At their head was a man dressed in black trousers and a vest so deep a blue it appeared black as well, and over that, he wore an oiled, dark coat that draped over the sides of his huge stallion.

The leader came to a halt just before the lecarta. He was stooped and his eyes glinted from within his hood like black gems, but his face was hard to see. “What is going on here?” Silence. “Someone speak before I lose my temper…” For the first time in ages, aside from Darkeye’s men, Zane felt an instant hatred. Everything about that oiled tone was filled with righteous self-importance.