Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (4 page)

The Devari spoke. “He meant no harm, Sithel.”

Sithel snorted. “I will be the judge of that, Devari.”

Who was this man who led Reavers and commanded Devari?

“Rise,” Sithel ordered. A Reaver at his side with three stripes on his cuffs lifted a hand. Like a puppet, Zane was lifted into the air to stand upon his feet. Yet his limbs were not his own—he felt as if a steel thread ran through his body, holding him in place. It was terrifying, and he hated not having control.
Let me go…
his body raged, but he bit his tongue, knowing one wrong word could mean his death.

“What’s your name, criminal?” Sithel asked.

He held the man’s terrifying gaze. “Zane—” he hesitated “—and I am no criminal.”

“Then why do you interrupt my procession, Zane?” Sithel asked, moving closer, his horse looming above Zane. Zane could smell sweat and a rank darkness emanating from the man. “It is, by law of Farbs, illegal to interfere with Citadel affairs. Does this not look like Citadel affairs?”

Zane’s body began to shake, suffocating beneath his bonds.

“Are you both blind and deaf? Speak!” Sithel barked.

The fire within Zane raged.
Release me,
it begged. Meanwhile, Zane tried to find words through his rising fear and frustration, forcing them out. “It was not my intention. I… was forced to…” He tried to move, but his bonds held him tighter than the noose around a murderer’s neck. He choked, feeling as if his whole body was slowly dying. He could not be caged, and every fiber of his being railed against it. He needed to move or he would explode.

“Intention or not, you are here. Speak straight, for I am losing patience…”

“First, let me go,” he sputtered. “I swear, I will not run or fight.”

“Is it that unbearable?” Sithel sneered. “Sad. You seemed stronger than that.”

His eyes bulged and his body shuddered as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, losing consciousness. “Release… me…”

Distantly, he saw Sithel flick his hand in annoyance. The bonds fell and Zane sagged, falling to the earth, vomiting as if a darkness was purged from his body.

Sithel spoke, “Your next words will be your death or salvation. Choose them wisely.”

Still breathing ragged breaths, Zane realized he was in a corner. If he admitted stealing, even if it was from Darkeye, he would be jailed or even killed. In Farbs, stealing was a crime often met with death. He breathed in the dry dust, staring at the tan ground before him, desperately trying to buy himself time.

“Answer!” Sithel bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Enough stalling!”

In the corner of his vision, between the heads of the crowd, he saw a glimpse of Salamander. The thief smiled—a sinister grin. He knew Zane was stuck. A lie was as good as death, and so was the truth.
I should have fought and fell to Snaggle and the others.
At least, there he would have had a chance.
A slim chance, but at least a chance.
Against twelve Reavers, two Devari, and this man? There was no hope.

He gritted his teeth but suppressed his fear and rage and rose, standing tall. He took a deep breath and summoned his voice, “I—”

“—Let him go,” the Devari interrupted. It was the same one who spoke earlier, with the fearsome features—long nose and sharp jaw. “This is not our way.”

Sithel looked confused and curious but, before he could respond, the Reaver at his side with three stripes whispered in Sithel’s ear. Zane thought he heard the word
orphan
. He didn’t know what the stripes meant exactly, but he figured it denoted rank. The others all had two or less. A light entered Sithel’s eyes, and his steed danced beneath him, feeding off its rider’s excitement. “It is decided. The boy will come back to the Citadel for questioning. It is the Patriarch’s will. Now take him.”

The bare-chested servants moved forward.

Zane felt his heart drop.
Death.
That was what questioning meant. It was a mounting rumor that had only taken hold in the last few months that boys and young men were taken to the Citadel for “questioning” and never returned. Always, it was orphans, those without family.

The Devari stepped forward, countering the muscled servants. “I’ve read his mind and his intentions. The ki tells me he is no threat.”

Sithel raised a single brow. “What are you trying to say?”

“That I will not let you take him.”

“This is the Patriarch’s will, Devari. Question it again and risk everything.”

The two Devari pressed together, looking like cornered lions, and their hands went to their blades. “This is not the Patriarch’s will. This is Arbiter Fera’s will,” he said.

Sithel quaked with anger. “You dare to speak Citadel politics in front of these heathens?”

“I do what I must. You will not take this boy or any other boy back to her.”

“Stand down,”
Sithel hissed. It was whispered, but it couldn’t have been harsher if he had bellowed it.

Both Devari unsheathed their blades.

The crowds gasped.

The quiet Devari leapt.

Sithel’s dark eyes flashed dangerously as he nodded. The man fell to a pile of ash. The first Devari, Zane’s defender, cried out and lunged for Sithel. The Reaver at Sithel’s side waved a hand, smirking. The Devari suddenly gasped as flames sprung from his clothes. He tore his tunic and shirt from his burning body with one hand, still running. With his other hand, he tossed a dagger. It flew, lodging itself in the three-stripe Reaver’s throat. The man gurgled blood and fell from his horse, dead. Abruptly, a roaring ball of fire seared the air to collide with the charging warrior. The Devari cried out as the fire consumed, eating away at the screams. Zane watched, unable to look away, feeling sick. At last, Sithel waved his hand. The fire vanquished. In its place was a body blackened like burnt meat, his smoldering clothes clung to his charred flesh. Zane gagged as the awful smell hit him.

Silence, like the pall
of death, hung in the air. It had all happened so quickly. Zane slowly backed away, knowing that if there was a time to run and honor the Devari’s sacrifice, it was now or never.

Sithel sniffed the air like a rat as his head swiveled, turning to Zane. “Where do you think you’re going?”

The Reaver at his side snapped his fingers and nerves pinched in the back of Zane’s legs, wincing in pain as he collapsed to the ground. He knew they were controlling them by threading the element of flesh. He snarled in rebellion, but there was nothing he could do.

“Really now,” Sithel said, pulling back his hood to expose his features to the light of day, and Zane balked. With black eyes, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin, the man looked as if he’d been born in a dark pit, more creature of night than human. His long ebony hair sucked in the light and seemed to move about his face like writhing snakes. By contrast, it made his pale skin appear almost translucent. He picked his filed teeth with a long, black fingernail and spoke again. “We’ve made far more of a spectacle out of this than necessary. Now I’ll ask only once. Come with us quietly, won’t you?”

Zane seethed, his blood rising again. “You mean do I care to die quietly?” He was no longer afraid. Instead, seeing the Devari die had filled him with a mounting rage.

Sithel shrugged. “Choose what words you will.”

He made a gesture, and men moved forward to grab Zane. His fear spiked.

“I…” Zane thought of the most outrageous lie he could. “I’m not an orphan.”

Raising his hairless brow, Sithel laughed. “Is that so?” He sounded amused and doubtful, yet the large, approaching men hesitated, if only for a moment. “Well, where is your precious family then?”

“My family…”

“Lad!”
A voice called, sounding over his thudding heart, coming from the crowds. All turned to the sound, including Sithel and the other Reavers. The throng parted, revealing an old man with gray hair, a beak nose, drooping cheeks like soggy bread, and a hunched back. He leaned heavily on what looked like the gnarled root of a Sansa tree made into a staff. “Boy, light and flesh, there you are! I should have known if I let you wander off on your own, you’d have the whole Citadel crashing down on your head!”

“Who are you, old man?” Sithel questioned.

The old man hobbled to Zane’s side, seemingly oblivious to the danger. The crowds seemed equally perplexed. “Who am I? Isn’t it obvious? I’m his father!”

Zane’s mouth parted.

Sithel looked to him, and he swiftly wiped the look from his face and nodded as confidently as he could. “This… is your son?” Sithel asked, looking suspicious but not entirely disbelieving.

“Are you hard of hearing, young man?” the old man questioned and chuckled to himself, eyeing Zane. “Well, I suppose the resemblance isn’t easy to see. He’s got his mother’s looks mostly, and her knack for finding trouble. But that nose, sure as sugar, is mine!” Zane eyed the man’s large nose and realized it was much like his own bold nose—in fact, it looked almost identical, albeit bigger. Old men’s noses always did seem to grow with age.
Coincidence
, he told himself… And yet…
Could the old man really be my father?
Zane shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. But the man was saving his hide. Zane realized he’d better fall in line and quick.

“Sorry, da’. I know you told me to get a new bridle for Jess, but this procession was in the way, and the only way through was… well, straight through.”

The old man, his back turned to the others, flashed Zane a wink of approval. Then he turned back to let Sithel see his disappointment as he wagged an admonishing finger. “See? How many times have I told you? You have a good head on you, if only you’d actually use it. Now, apologize to this man quickly, and we’ll be on our way.”

“I’m afraid not,” Sithel sighed. “This is Citadel business now, old man, and your boy is caught up in it. He is coming with us.”

The old man rubbed his chin. Again, he wondered who the old man was…
Didn’t he know whom he was talking?
“Oh, really? Taking my own boy from me in front of all these people? Is that truly the will of the Patriarch? Is that what the mighty Citadel has come to now? Noble Reavers stealing boys from the street and killing their own Devari?”

“Silence!” a Reaver with two stripes shouted with a snarl. Zane saw the old man’s words sink beneath their skin, and he hid a grin.
He plays a dangerous game.
It reminded him of Terus, a street game where one lived or died by the flip of a dagger. “You stand before Reavers, men and women who can peel the skin from your bones. Show some respect!” The ground rumbled, and the lecarta’s red drapes wavered.

In that moment, Zane saw something behind the drapes—a brilliant flash of blue. It was so bright and mesmerizing that he took a step towards it, wanting to touch the miniature, azure sun. A chill flashed through him. He took another step, passing the old man pretending to be his father. His blood felt on fire and yet frozen all at the same time. Zane reached out just as the drapes settled but, at once, the image was gone. Shaking his head, he wondered:
What was that?

“Mighty powerful words…” the old man said softly, and a dangerous note entered his voice. “Powerful and foolish, seeing as the word Reaver means ‘protector of the people’, but I suppose you’ve forgotten that…”

The Reaver who spoke bristled, then raised a hand as if to thread.

“Enough!” Sithel spat. “You forget your place, Calid.”

Why did the man stop?
But as Zane looked around, he saw all the crowds wore vigilant looks and realized it was clear Sithel and his minion were treading too far. Taking a boy from his own father before a crowd of witnesses was something that Zane suspected even the Patriarch would hear of. The Citadel, while growing darker, still heeded to the voice of the citizens.

Calid’s mouth worked soundlessly. At last, the two-stripe Reaver lowered his head. “Apologies, my lord.”

Sithel turned his horse and spoke over his shoulder. “Take your son and go, but, if we meet again, know my mercy has its limits.”

With that, he rode off, back to the head of the procession.

The old man ushered Zane towards the crowd. But Zane stopped for a moment. He eyed the ash pile that was once a Devari then the broken, burnt body of the blue-eyed Devari. Several muscled men grabbed him, putting him on their shoulders and carrying him away.
Is he dead?
Zane wondered. The man had saved him, sacrificing himself.
Why? I hadn’t asked it…
He hated owing anyone anything, and now his life was indebted to a man who was likely dead. The old man tugged Zane’s arm, and he let himself be taken. Whispers sifted through the crowds, following them. Men and women, merchants, beggars, mothers, fathers, all stared at him as if he were a leper and a Reaver combined—looks of fear and respect.

Behind them, music filled the air as musicians took up their instruments, and the procession carried on as if it had never been stopped.