Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (48 page)

She hesitated, but not for long. She twisted the threads, turning a switch in his mind from the ancient dialect he was using to the common tongue and Ezrah’s rambling shifted
. “Yronia… Sithel… Voidstone… Gray… He is comin—”

Frantically, she twisted the threads, subtly and swiftly. Ezrah’s rambling halted. His eyes shut, his body limp against the marble. She saw no one was looking at her, and breathed a hidden sigh. Upon the cold, red marble, Ezrah breathed shallowly. He was not dead, merely unconscious. Whatever he was saying seemed too dire… She had started it, but she couldn’t let Sithel win. Not this fight, at least.

“He’s suffered the limit of pain. He’s passed out,” said Reaver Finn Ilunis.

“So it seems,” Guran said, sounding doubtful. She looked up and found his gaze, forcing herself to meet it. She felt her body heat up and sweat pop upon her brow, but she refrained from flinching.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Reavers in scarlet robes stood in the wide entry, announcing the next shift.

Meira hid a breath of relief.
At last…

Without waiting to receive the command, she let go of her connection with the Fuse, letting the spark fall from her. Each Reaver let go in sequence, the golden glow fading—an aura seen only by those with the spark. Meira felt her body slump, now exhausted. Sleep beckoned, but she cared not for it. A reprieve was the only blessing she was grateful for.

She made her way to the door, ignoring the others’ eyes as they followed.

Outside, she attempted to feign patience, but continued to move swiftly when a voice called her name, “Meira!”

She turned to see three Reavers.

Reaver Finn Ilunis had called her name. Reaver Yuni Sinal was behind him, then Reaver Dagon Swift—a Reaver from the newest shift. The three approached her. Finn’s blue eyes were red-rimmed, but his angular face looked as if he’d just seen an apparition come to life. Finn was a close childhood friend, but since the Citadel had changed, she still did not fully trust him. Oh how she dearly wanted to… But as it was, there was no on left to trust—not even herself.

She smiled serenely as they circled her. She was a paragon of poise, in full control again
now that she was outside that room of horrors. “Yes?”

Finn spoke animatedly. “
How?
How did you do that? Never in my life have I seen flesh used in that way…”

“I would also like to know how you did that,” said a voice behind the three. Reaver Guran suddenly pushed his way through. Tall and muscular, Guran was not only the epitome of power but of masculinity as well. Meira despised his arrogance, and even more, its effect on others. Guran grinned charmingly. “
Compelling
. I’ve only read about it until now in tomes of old.” He sounded amused, distrustful, and hateful all at the same time.

“It was easy,” she lied, having accomplished it just then for the first time.

“Then share by all means.”

“Only if you insist,” she said and wove the complicated threads in the air before any could reject. She pressed it forward, into Guran, taking him off-guard. He was more powerful than her in nearly every element and in raw strength, but he was too cocky, and flesh was her trademark. The layered spell hit Guran.

Guran suddenly squawked, mouth moving awkwardly,
“Stupid bitch! How’d she do it? I wish I knew!”

The others looked at one another in amazement as Guran’s face grew red with embarrassment and anger. Finn, her friend, tried simply not to laugh though a chuckle escaped.

“And now you know,” she said offhandedly.

“How in the…” Reaver Yuni said.

“Meira,” Finn exclaimed, amazed. “Do you realize that was nearly three-dozen threads at
once
? My eyes, woman! I never thought anyone but an Arbiter could accomplish something of that note.” Meira observed Finn’s enthusiasm bitterly. How could he be so full of life after what they had done? She felt wracked with shame to her core.

Guran, however, was not so amazed or pleased.
“You…!”
The man’s rage mounted, his hand raising. Meira didn’t flinch. It was no use. She knew she could do nothing to him before he incinerated her to a small pile of ash, but it had almost been worth it. Almost. Perhaps then her guilt, her despair, would be washed free.

“Enough!” Reaver Dagon ordered. All went silent, heads bowed. Even Guran hesitated. Dagon bore the fourth stripe upon his wide sleeves. He was nearly an Arbiter, though still chasms away. In all reality, despite being the most powerful and experienced, Dagon was pitiful compared to an Arbiter. Even Guran’s raw talent with fire was but a flickering flame to an Arbiter. “You yourself asked for a demonstration, Guran. However, you know as well as any, Reaver Meira, that use of the spark against a fellow brother or sister is strictly prohibited. I shall report this to the Highmaster Venasi, and he will decide if punishment is deserved. That will be all, unless either of you wish to contest this further?”

Meira shook her head wisely. Highmaster Venasi was the head taskmaster, but all knew lately he cowed to Sithel’s command. Banishment was the price of disorder as of late.
Death
, she amended fearfully. Even the hotheaded Guran growled, but said no more. He pushed his way past, shoving other scarlet robed Reavers aside and leaving a wake of fiery ire behind him.

Dagon turned to her—she saw pain behind his eyes. Could she confide in him? Was he simply worn down by exhaustion or was this dark deed sucking his soul from his body as well? She grit her teeth, wishing she knew. She could not risk it. Dagon spoke, addressing all, but eyeing Meira. “I would advise returning to your rooms for sleep as Master Sithel has instructed, my brothers and sisters, for we will be called on again soon, and you will need rest for your next shift.”

The others left, though she saw Finn linger.

She ignored him, moving to leave, but Dagon grabbed her arm. “Rest well, Reaver Meira,” said the four-stripe Reaver. “For I have a feeling the next shift will be the last one we will ever have, and this shall finally be over.”

Meira’s eyes narrowed, trying to judge Dagon’s tone. Was he elated at the prospect of being done as she was? She had to know. “Finally?” she asked, her tone treading between excitement and simple curiosity.

“Spirits willing, it will be done at last,” Dagon replied and sighed heavily.

Yes. I can trust him,
she thought. Another sliver of relief lanced through her, thoughts brewing…

She parted ways with quick, polite words and moved through halls, venturing out of the dark, deeply restricted depths of the Citadel. More and more people moved about the higher she rose, Neophytes, Reavers, guards and servants—even a few stalking Devari strode through the white and black marble halls.

A group of Neophytes saw the three stripes on her cuff and bowed deeply, awe filling their eyes. She remembered that look, that feeling once… barely now. It seemed so long ago.

Her hands shook as she moved. She feared that servants, Neophytes, and Reavers would see it and question, but they simply continued to bow deeply in her presence, and she felt more waves of guilt with each bow of adoration. Meira clenched her eyes, trying to shove aside the darkness, to assume her normally ironclad shell of confidence, but it was not easy. Each time she did, she heard the old man’s screams, and the shell shattered like the frail husk it now was. She tightened her fists to stop her hands from trembling and decided… She could not think on what she was doing or it would break her. Simple as that. It was too foul, too horrific.

But as she moved, she saw other Reavers’ eyes, men she had seen Sithel commanding. Meira suddenly feared the eyes watching her from all corners. She moved faster, passing grand halls, open entry chambers, green courtyards, and more. The Citadel was alive and thriving as always, but it felt false, like a disguise. The Citadel was a graveyard of darkness wearing the guise of life, or worse, a villainous man wearing the robes of the pious. It
was
false. She entered a chamber open to the sunlit day, but the sun felt cold on her pale skin. She kept moving, towards the Eastern Wing.

She had to get to her room.

A three-stripe Reaver she knew suddenly appeared from the far hallway. Reaver Dijarik was a ruthless man in charge of torturing the old man as well. Without her shell of confidence, Meira felt suddenly vulnerable.

S
how hesitancy and you may end up the same!
her mind shouted.
For the Citadel had changed, those who questioned the will of Sithel were never seen again. Rumors sifted that those Reavers or Neophytes had been assigned to guarding other Great Kingdoms, but Meira knew better.

They had been expunged like vermin.

Not willing to risk it, she ducked behind a large standing vase in an empty hallway adjacent to the sunlit chamber and watched as Reaver Dijarik passed.

She closed her eyes, breathing thin and fast, sweat coating her skin beneath her heavy robes. What had become of the once-great Citadel? Yet Meira knew the Patriarch would end it soon.
Once he returns from his trip to seek aid from the other Great Kingdoms, he will set it right.
She only had to wait. Though what would he do when he saw what she had done? But what could she do to resist it?

With Reaver Dijarik gone, she moved onward, gathering her calm around her one last time like a mantle. She moved towards the grand Eastern Wing of the Citadel, which housed the higher-ranking Reavers—towards her chamber and sleep.

Yet she feared slumber, for only nightmares waited there, brought upon by her dark deeds.

Gray…

The old man’s words echoed again in her head, haunting her as her footsteps sounded softly on the richly woven rug that ran the marble hallway.
Who is this Gray?
Hope bloomed abruptly. Perhaps he could aid her—perhaps he could find a way to make this nightmare end… With that thought, her fists gripped her scarlet robes, and Reaver Meira pressed on faster, as if she could outrun her own darkness.

* * *

Meira scuttled through the hallways, sneaking into the kitchens.

Smells of meat and bread lingered, assaulting her senses and making her stomach growl. She had disobeyed High Master Venasi Suroth and, as punishment, the man had forbid her from breakfast, lunch,
and
dinner. She was starving. Meira shivered and reached out, grabbing a sweet cake from a tin near the wide double doors. Sweet cakes were her favorite.

Suddenly, something snatched her hand. “Thief!”

Fear flushed through her. “No, please!” Meira cried. “I didn’t mean to! I was just hungry!”

The servant woman said something she didn’t understand. Her gaze was taken as a man appeared, his tall imposing frame filling her vision. Calmly, he pulled back his hood. Dark grey hair fell around a wise-looking face with stern features. He stood tall and commanding as he spoke. “Leave her be,” he commanded.

The servant woman was suddenly gone.

The man looked to her, and she tried to explain, her voice a squeak. “I’m sorry… I was just…”

“Your name?”

“Meira.”

“Mine is Ezrah. And you are simply hungry, Meira. Do not apologize. No one should be hungry.” Calmly, the man reached out, and the tray filled with fresh baked treats moved closer, as if held by invisible hands. The spark, she knew in awe
.
“Go ahead. Take as many as you want, and share with your friends.”

Meira didn’t question the man. Standing in the white light coming from the corridor, he looked like a spirit. Eagerly, she filled her hands with her favorites, hiding those she couldn’t carry in her baggy sleeves.

“If anyone gives you any trouble,
including
High Master Suroth, tell him to see me. The Citadel is a place of light, not darkness. Remember, Meira, always do what you believe is right first, and what is told to you second.”

“I promise…” she said.

Meira awoke.

Her eyes opened slowly, taking in the lacy canopy above her with its four elaborately carved posts. Her hands gripped her blankets. It had been such a sweet dream, yet sweat covered her again, making her thin shift stick to her slender frame.

Her room was shrouded in darkness—but still she could faintly make out finely made cabinets, rich rugs, velvet chairs, and several stands holding Serilian silver vases.

Outside the nearby window, it was still dark. She clenched her eyelids, hoping to drift off to sleep, but immediately opened them again. It didn’t feel right. None of it did. Something inside her was stirring restlessly.

She threw off her covers, slipped on her red slippers and moved across the room, splashing cold water from her Seria porcelain washbasin before gliding across the cold stone to the huge oval window beside her bed. The night was still heavy. She’d barely been asleep for an hour, and yet the dream seemed so long—and powerful. It still clung to her like walking through a spider web. And this time, she didn’t want to peel it from her.
Let it cling,
she thought.
I deserve this guilt.
It wracked her insides. Something knocked and her heart skipped a beat.