Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (59 page)

Ezrah eyed the flame, watching it burn fervently, as if seeing through the flame.
“Daerval is without the spark, correct? But while living in Daerval may diminish your strength and your abilities, your power is still there, is it not? In the end, it is choice, as are all things. All our power resides within, and just because you can’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Your strength is inside you, Gray, and you cannot—you
must not
—let anyone take it from you,” he said and shrugged. “Also, I am an Arbiter.” And the red flame suddenly burned blue, yellow, green, white, black, tan, and then finally settled on a deep red, once again. “I am not without my ways.”

Gray had trouble choosing whether to laugh or gawk. He realized his mouth was open, and he snapped it shut then shook his head. “But still, my power… I know it’s inside me. I haven’t let it be taken, but I can’t seem to fix it.”

“Then you must search deeper.” Ezrah handed the candle to him. “Snuff the flame with your power.”

Gray faltered, fingers tightening around the smooth wax. He wanted his power, and he wanted to prove to his grandfather he wasn’t weak. He focused on the burning candle then delved inward. The nexus came, a ball of white as usual, but the missing patch seemed to be growing. Fear flashed, but he put it down and reached out. Yet as he touched the white ball it slipped through his hand, vanishing. He grasped for his power again, but the nexus was nowhere to be seen. “I cannot,” he said, frustration growing. “Without need, I cannot touch my power. Wait, you can teach me, can’t you?” he pleaded, looking up.

Ezrah glowered at him beneath thick eyebrows. “You wield the flow. It is a power only the Ronin can wield—it is the very essence of the spark, where all magic in the world derives from. As such, it is by nature far greater in power, but also wholly different. Now none but the Ronin know its vast limits, or how to summon it at will.”

“Then how am I to learn it? The Ronin are dead,” Gray said. As he said the words, they sounded like a lie, even to him. Ezrah’s eyes were a mystery, again unreadable. He almost reached out with the ki by instinct, but refrained.

The Arbiter spoke. “You will have to learn by trial and error, as is the way of most things. Though I can help a little. What I do know is that the spark yields to force, but I believe the flow is like a blade. It will need the cool, quenching waters to temper the steel, or it will shatter beneath the first blow. In essence, seek your power in the moment between anger
and
stillness.”

Holding the candle to the light streaming from the window, Gray pulled, but this time he
listened
as well. His eyes tightened on the burning flame. He felt the wind begin to form on the tips of his fingers, little white threads reaching for the orange fire. He wanted to pull more, to hold the power tighter, but instead he relaxed his mind. A slight breeze ruffled the sheets, and the flame wavered, but then settled, still burning brightly. Gray sighed, letting the nexus fall. Ezrah placed a solemn hand upon his shoulder. “With time, my boy, with time… There is also power in patience.”

Just then, there was a knock.

“Come in,” Ezrah called in the voice of an Arbiter.

Meira entered with a group of Reavers behind her. She took in the scene with her usual smooth face. He saw she was wearing a fresh set of scarlet robes, and the dark stripes upon her cuff seemed to pull in the light of the tranquil room. She spoke. “I’m sorry to delay your reunion, my—” she seemed to struggle for an honorific “—
Arbiter
,” she settled on, it sounded powerful enough.

“What is it?” Ezrah asked. Again, his voice was soft, but it demanded authority like a general upon the battlefield, despite sitting in a bed on the recovery from the brink of death.

“We’ve only just begun, and there’s much to be done. Sithel’s darkness is spreading. We need you.”

“His wounds have barely closed,” Gray said, his jaw tightening. “Can you not wait until his strength has recovered at least a little?” Through the ki, he felt compassion coming from Meira, but her stern expression didn’t alter.

“It’s all right, my boy,” Ezrah said, and Gray turned to see his grandfather wearing a strong but kind smile. “I must see to this. I must heed my own words and find the strength within.”

Gray nodded but paused, not moving from his seat.

His grandfather lifted a brow, “My boy?”

Gray couldn’t leave. “I…”

Ezrah, seeing his consternation, looked to the other Reavers. “Leave us,” he commanded powerfully. Meira opened her mouth as if to object.
“Now.”
The word boomed, and
some three-stripe Reavers made flustered bows, while others just hurried for the door, but all obeyed, even Meira.

“We’ll give you another moment or two, but no more,” she said, shutting the door.

The room returned to silence, and he felt the weight of his grandfather’s eyes.

“What is it, Gray? Speak your mind.”

Gray’s fist tightened around the candle. “The Ronin.”

Ezrah’s expression darkened. “You want to know who you are?”

“I know,” he said. “I am Kail’s progeny.”

“You are much more than that, Gray.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a Ronin, a Devari, and the blood of an Arbiter flows through your veins.” Gray swallowed at the weight of those words. “There is much that stands upon your shoulders, my boy, though you’ve a long path ahead of you and much to learn… You hold a greater power inside you than anything the world has ever known.”

Gray shivered. “What am I to do with it?”

“That is your call,” Ezrah said simply then smiled and touched Gray’s hand that held the book and something seemed to sift
into
him. There was a
click
in his mind as a chill coursed through his limbs, despite the warm air in the lighted room.
What was that?
“Know this, my boy,” the man said in a deep voice. “Whatever your power, you are still
you
. Your choices are yours alone. Only you can shape who you will become.”

There was a rushed knock, and Meira’s faced peeked back in. “My Arbiter,” she voiced calmly, but the vein of urgency was clear. “We’ve waited long enough. Too much is at stake. The boy is not going anywhere. We must discuss our plans.”

Gray sighed and rose, but Ezrah’s hand stopped him. “I’ve waited two years to see my grandson. I do not intend to lose him again so soon. You may stay, my boy, if you’d like.”

“It’s all right,” he said, warmed by his grandfather’s words. “I’m not needed here, I’ll only get in the way. But don’t worry, as far as I’m concerned, this conversation is far from finished.”

Ezrah gave a mischievous wink. “Until then.” Gray turned, and Ezrah called out, “My boy. Are you forgetting something?” he said, holding the worn tome in his hand.
I thought that was just in my hand?
Confused, he thanked his grandfather and grabbed the book. The chill coursed through him again. Feeling strangely drained, Gray moved to the door as the others rushed in.

A Book of Truth

A
S
G
RAY LEFT
E
ZRAH, HE MOVED
into the adobe hall, book under his arm, making his way towards the stairs when he felt something tug upon his mind. Ezrah’s words played over again.

Until then…

He shook it off and continued. He passed a room with men and women talking around a low table and sitting on small cushions—newcomers to the Tranquil House. They had been coming in small droves. Farbian guards, Reavers, servants, and even Devari, any and all with sense enough to see the Citadel was breaking. As such, their cause was growing rapidly.

Meira had refrained from pulling out the Neophytes. Not yet at least, she said. Several had already ‘disappeared’ in their attempts to flee. It was too dangerous, she had decided. But Gray felt the tension building. How long could this continue? It was only a matter of time until the Citadel discovered their whereabouts. Real conflict, like a teakettle close to boiling, was bound to happen.

Sithel was building his forces, preparing for something, and Gray feared it. Whispers spoke of it throughout the Tranquil House, in every hall, sifting in and out of all corners of the large building.

“How many are left?” a woman’s voice asked with authority. A Reaver.

Gray ducked back, listening to the conversation in the room.

“We’ve recovered only a small portion of our brothers and sisters. Too many Reavers have swayed to the darkness, or worse, are too afraid to speak up or act. Sithel has cast a fear over the Citadel that is all but tangible. More are coming to our cause, but it is dangerous to do so, almost too dangerous. As it stands, we are outnumbered ten to one. We must sway others to our rebellion or we will never stand a chance.”

“What do you intend, Reaver Unuri?” a stern voice asked of the woman—it sounded like a Devari. “Do you plan to start a war all on your own?”

“War is already upon us, Devari. Ignoring it only leaves us blind. If we remain blind, then we will fall.”

“Perhaps, Unuri,” said the first female Reaver, placidly. “But we must be careful as well. What if Sithel simply shuts the doors to the Citadel? What then? Or openly begins the manhunt of all non-dark Reavers? As it stands, he has been tactical enough to do his dark deeds behind closed doors. How many will die if he purges the Citadel of those remaining who are loyal to our cause? We must not force his hand in this. There are too many factors to consider. One wrong action could spell our demise, and before we even have a chance to act.”

“Wise words for any other time, Reaver Ethelwin, but how long is caution the correct course of action? With each passing second we grow, but Sithel grows even stronger. How long must we wait?”

“We wait until the Arbiter decides it is time, and no sooner.”

There was a silence, as if this seemed the right course of action for all.

“Let us hope he decides soon then…” said Reaver Unuri.

Reaver Ethelwin spoke again, her soft voice sing-songy as if trying to lighten the mood. “How about the Devari? How fare our numbers with your ilk?”

“We are still split as well,” said a deep-voiced man, sounding troubled. “The younglings side with our rebellion, but they are not Sword-Forged. The true might of the Devari still lies in Jian’s hands. And he will never lead them against the Citadel. He is a man of duty above all else. Nothing will sway him but the Patriarch’s hand, and he is still away on foreign matters.”

“And the servants?” asked another.

“Good,
m’lady
. Sithel has not cast his foul eyes to us yet. We have garnered over two dozen to our cause. And a good thing too with our rising numbers! Or we’d never have the ovens working in such force, or beds made—”

“Beds?”
scoffed a younger voice. “This is ridiculous!”

“Reaver Suntha, watch your words…”

“No. I’ll not be silent! I watched two of my brothers die to Sithel and his dark Reavers. Yet here we sit, gossiping about bedpans and cooking when we
need
an army!”

“Enough!” Reaver Ethelwin snapped in return. “It is not Sula’s fault. She is doing her best like every one of us. We can only follow the path before us until another is revealed. It is our way. Now, if you are quite finished, we have other matters—”

Feeling guilty, Gray decided not to eavesdrop anymore, and continued forward.

Those in the room saw him, and their conversation halted abruptly.

Several Devari cast salutes while the servants bowed low. Even the male and female Reavers rose and made awkward bows.

Gray swallowed and moved on. None knew how to deal with him upon discovering Ezrah was his grandfather. An Arbiter. Most seemed to flash him looks of fear, respect, but above all, curiosity. He had no spark, and they seemed to be able to read it in him. But he didn’t care. Their looks were just a buzzing fly, something he carried beneath a much greater mantle.

But their words troubled him.

War.

He passed a Reaver on the stairs that was gazing out of the two-storied balcony. He paused. Despite Ezrah’s warning, Gray reached out with the ki, entering the man’s body. He expected a wall. The man was three-striped, but he found nothing. Literally,
nothing.
His mind was not a door left open, there was no door. He seeped into the man’s body. He felt the cold metal railing beneath his forearms. As he saw through the Reaver’s eyes, people moved below, but the man’s gaze was distant. He saw none of it. As if he was no longer alive.

Gray retreated from the man’s body with a deep shiver.

With the book under his arm, Gray left, moving outside. It was a lush, green glade split by a running brook and several trees. The neighborhood was upscale by any standards Gray knew. Over the backyard’s walls, he glimpsed other large houses, and the street was wide and filled with people adorned in silks and jewels. He hardly felt it was a suitable hideout, but Reaver Meira had assured him that the large house was
normal
, at least by the standards of Farbs. As a whole, he supposed she was right. The tan brickwork of the house, though covered in vines, was relatively plain. The stables on the backside, opposite the dirt street, were no larger than those at the average inn, perhaps even smaller—making the rebel army rather cramped.