Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (47 page)

At last, Hadrian’s head fell. “Kill me, then, and be done with it.”

She unsheathed her dagger, put it to his chin and lifted his head. “Not yet. Not before you tell me everything. What do you remember of your capture?”

Hadrian looked away, as if trying to remember. “I remember… woods… I was on the border of the Relnas Forest, on a mission. It seemed an odd order, to scout in the Yurili Pass, for it is not secured by our forces, but I followed the order anyway.”

“Go on,” Karil pressed.

“I…” Hadrian’s eyes squeezed. “I had just moved into the valley when there was movement in the brush on my right. It seemed suspicious. And so I trailed around it, moving to a higher vantage spot… That was when the true trap was sprung. I saw it just before it happened.”

“Continue,” Karil said, feeling her anger rise, dagger pressing tighter.

Hadrian’s faced twisted, pained, but not by her dagger. “I remember green armor… Two elves in the bushes. I wanted to warn them to put down their weapons. I tried. I remember. I opened my mouth and…”

“And?”
she questioned.

There was a long, heavy silence as sweat broke out on Hadrian’s skin. The elf grunted in pain and exertion.

“Tell me!” she commanded. “What happened next?”

He looked up, eyes bloodshot, shaking his head only slightly. “I can’t…”

Her anger was growing, but she was getting nowhere. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Rydel pulled her even farther aside, speaking low enough to ensure he couldn’t hear. “I do not trust him.”

“I fear it is not so simple,” she replied. “His words seem too true. There is something missing here, but I cannot put my finger on it. Either way, I do not believe we have seen the full Hadrian. We will have to question him further, but I don’t believe he’s going to tell us anything now. Luckily, he’s not going anywhere.”

“I don’t like it,” Rydel said. “He should not stay here, and you should not have brought him here.”

Karil looked to the elf captain, Lannor, gesturing him over. “Lannor, did you do as I said in full? Was he blindfolded?”

“All the way, my queen. He knows not where he is.”

“Good, then blindfold him again and take his hearing this time—I don’t care if you have to stuff wax in his ears or deafen him, but do not let him have any sense of where he is going.”

“Where shall I take him, my queen?” Lannor asked.

“I’ve had Temian prepare a tent that will suffice. It is on the eastern border of the camp. Take him there. Keep him bound and blindfolded, and set a guard of at least ten on him at all times.”

Lannor, dutiful to the core, simply clapped a fist to his heart and went to see it done.

Rydel’s teeth ground. “It is not enough.”

“We’ve enough bindings to shackle a stagfal,” she said. Stagfals were huge beasts, the size of a small dragon, moose-like in appearance, but bigger all around and with skin thick enough to deflect the keenest spear. “It will have to do, my friend.”

“And why do we not simply execute him? You said it best—he killed two of ours. He will not avoid justice.”

“I believe there’s much Hadrian has yet to tell us…” she said, meaning more than her words implied. “He is a mystery I seek to crack. Besides, his knowledge of Dryan’s forces alone—their movements, positions, and numbers—is vital if we seek to find a chink in
their
armor. You know as well as I, this elf is our first edge in this war, our best weapon yet. I cannot—no, I
will
not—throw it away. He is too important.”

“Even if he is lying?”

“He is not lying…”

“Believe me, this will not be the end of this elf,” Rydel said oddly. “There is something more to him.”

“What are you saying?”

He looked towards the elf as he was pulled to his feet, bound, blindfolded, and deafened with waxed cloths stuffed in his ears. Hadrian complied without so much as a twitch of a muscle. It was good he did. Rydel replied at last. “What he said…
my kind…
he seemed to know too much. He seemed worried that I was alive, or surprised to see it so.”

“Perhaps the other Hidden are being hunted by Dryan,” she posed.

“Perhaps,” Rydel said mysteriously.

Karil cleared her throat, watching as Hadrian was hauled to his feet.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever asked you, but how many Hidden are there left?” She felt odd asking. She should know, but it was not a topic Rydel ever seemed to want to talk about, like a family he had lost and could not bring himself to rekindle the harsh memories.

“Just two that I know of, but the way he spoke… it seemed too familiar. As if when he asked,
your
kind, I felt he wanted to say something else…”

Karil hesitated when Hadrian, with his guard of fifty Lando, was marched forward.

Hadrian suddenly stopped before her. Despite the swarm of guard around him, Karil felt a flash of fear as his blindfolded eyes turned towards her. She
felt
his eyes, burning.
How? My scent?
she wondered. A thin smile passed across his face, but it was gone just as quickly, leaving her to question whether it
had
been there.

“Sunvai and Leahwin was it?” the Terma asked in a dark voice. “I will remember their names.”

Anger boiled inside her. She stepped forward, and pressed steel against Hadrian. His fair skin peeled, blood dripping from her blade. Calmly, she pulled out one piece of waxed cloth from his ear and hissed, “You do not have the right to remember their names”—finally feeling her human side—“
nor
the need, for you will not live to see the light of day ever again.”

Again, the hidden smile—but this time, she knew she had seen it.

“Peace upon you, my queen,” Hadrian said. “May you discover the truth soon.”

She stuffed the waxed cloth back and gruffly motioned to his guards. Several elves jabbed him in the back, drawing blood. Calmly, leisurely, Hadrian looked forward and continued out the tent. With his head high and gait measured, he appeared as if a king escorted by
his
guards.

Lannor stopped at her side.

Unfurling her sweaty fist, Karil instructed, “Double the guard and, upon their lives, impress upon them vigilance at all times—tell them I will check on them myself to be sure.” Lannor bowed low, and moved out, following the captive and the host of Lando.

Rydel suddenly gripped a nearby officer’s arm. “Have any who are able to lift a sword, those not attending the prisoner, meet me in the center field.”

The officer’s thin lips quirked in a smile he could not hide. “Yes, Hidden.” He moved, but then paused, looking almost anxious for an elf. “And…. might I say, the Lando rejoice to have you as their teacher at last.”

“They will not be rejoicing long,” Rydel said with a subtle grin. “Nor will you be so happy when I run you through your paces long into the night and you’re bruised and battered from head to toe. But you will be ready, for I will see you fit to fight even the Terma.” Karil shivered in memory, yet oddly longing for those days. The lessons had been hard, but the pain had been simpler, if still sharp. The elf looked fearful as well. Yet oddly, he looked even
more
excited as he clasped a fist to his heart and ran off to see it done.

“I will go now,” Rydel announced turning back to her. “I must see to making our forces strong.”

Karil felt her heart warm again. “Thank you, my friend.”

“That’s one thing you never have to do,” Rydel replied, sliding his sword smoothly in its sheath at one side, opposite its twin brother, and grabbing the tent’s flap. “But you are welcome regardless, my queen. I will do my best.”

“I know you will.”

Rydel paused, holding the tent’s flap, revealing again the bustle of war. Something crossed Rydel’s stern features—a dark, brooding look but then it was gone. “Be careful,” he said simply, at last. With that, he slipped into the light of day. But before he did, she heard one last strange word, murmured in thought.

A word she had heard Hadrian use.

Brother…

Dreams and Deeds

M
EIRA WORKED THE THREADS FLAWLESSLY AND
brutally.

She was a natural.

Sweat beaded upon her brow, forehead wrinkling in concentration. But the sweat was not from exhaustion. She worked harder, knowing it was slowly killing her, not her body, but her
soul—
if there
was
such a thing. She had never honestly believed in souls or things of that nature, not until she had been assigned to this malevolent room.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

Another sharp cry sounded. It hit the marble walls and dissipated instantly, for all sound was drained in this place, if not by the thick walls of the room buried deep beneath the great keep of the Citadel, then by magic spells from ancient Reavers that nullified noise.

Lying on the cold marble, upon the Star of Magha, the old man’s back arched as she worked. His eyes flared wide in shock, rolling to the back of his head as he gasped in searing pain.

No more…

Meira tried not to see, tried not to feel his pain, but she couldn’t help it. His straggled hair seemed to have gained white streaks of age in just days. White robes, now dirtied with blood and sweat, were stripped to his waist. Torso bared, his body was lathered in a sheen of sweat while red and black lacerations marred his arms, chest, and face.

The others continued to work. She eyed them out of the corner of her eye as she threaded, quickly assessing each. Eight Reavers in total,
each chosen because of their power or their ruthlessness—including herself.

And all wore resolute, grim faces, as if preparing for death.

But not their own.

From her upraised palms, Meira watched her power join the other dark streams, like eight spokes of a wagon wheel meeting at the center where the chained prisoner lay. The old man roared as the other Reavers redoubled their efforts. His voice would go raw soon once again, but still they would continue.

It felt like an eternity that Meira had been here, assigned to this task, watching and aiding as the old man was lashed with fire, blinded, given bubbling blisters using the power of sun, and made to suffer with other bizarre tortures, all to get him to speak. He had experienced days of being shrouded in pure darkness with the threads of moon to cloud the senses and give the sensation of eternal torture, days of having sharp stones scraped slowly across his body, and days of having molding fungi fester in his wounds and grow within his lungs.

Yet nothing was as potent or as effective in torture as
flesh
. And no one was better at wielding the brutal element than her. While Meira was immensely powerful as a three-stripe Reaver, she could not bring herself to draw more than a trickle of the spark. The old man’s agony ate at her, draining her as surely as the sun sucked the sweat from a man’s skin.

“It is not enough. More flesh, Meira!” Guran commanded. He was the leader of the Fuse—eight wielders working as one.

Please, just give in already,
she begged for the countless time.

She kept her face smooth, however, and did as Guran commanded, hiding a shiver. She could not let the others see her reluctance. Thick threads of flesh made the already thick stream of power swell like a bulging muscle, then bite into the old man, gnashing like teeth upon raw nerves. The old man’s back arched until she thought it would snap. His body trembled. It was the first time she had seen that… She suppressed another shiver. How was he so strong? Though Meira considered herself tough, she knew she would have broken during the first day of torture. But she suspected that was the difference between the man before her and all others. Even without the spark, he was a legend.

Without the spark…

The man cried out again, and she softened the threads of flesh, reflexively.

Suddenly, she felt eyes. Guran was gazing at her suspiciously. Fear flushed through Meira. Guran had a direct ear to Sithel.
No…
She had given herself up
.
Meira did the only thing she could think of, unsure exactly what she was doing. Twisting dozens of threads of flesh together, she made a dark spell.

Compelling
—an ancient spell that would force the wielder to speak.

The prisoner gasped, words forced from his thoughts and to his lips:
“He must not find me. He must not save me. I was wrong… He must… Run…”
Ezrah began to quake violently, body railing against his chains. She thought he was done, and she prayed it was so but he spoke again, this time in single, painful words,
“Unatias… Sunthas…”

“What is he saying?” Guran shouted angrily. “Compel him, Reaver Meira! Force him to make sense!”