Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (67 page)

Hannah turned to Lucky, kneeling. “Wait a second, how exactly did
you
get in here, Lucky?”

“Oh right, that’s the best part!” he said, and pointed straight above them to the sound of trickling water that echoed through the grand caverns. Just then the sound of footsteps sounded faintly in the distance. In his palm, Dared grew warm again.
“
There’s no time to explain, this way!”

* * *

Lucky reached the surface first, clambering out of the drainage pipe to stand in the cold shade of a back alley.
On his heels, Darius and the others scrambled out of the hole, eyeing the sun as if seeing it for the first time as they absorbed their new surroundings.

“Sunlight,” Ayva said, breathing in the warm desert air while wiping damp sand from the knees of her tan breeches. “How long were we down there?”

“
Too
long,” Darius replied.

“I’d say two days in full,” said Ayva. “Aside from those hours in that cursed pit, Faye seemed to be stalling us, but for what reason, I know not… The others must be worried sick.”

Nearby, there was a pipe leaking rainwater runoff and Lucky cleaned himself beneath the dirty water, shaking like a dog.

“I can’t believe we did it!” Hannah exclaimed.
“I was so afraid when I heard Darkeye throw you into the pit, Ayva. But you were so brave. In all my life, I’ve never heard anyone speak like that. You stood up to Darkeye and spat in his face! And then…” She shivered as if remembering something terrible. “When I heard you fall, I feared the very worst. I thought you’d been killed.”

Ayva’s eyes looked haunted too, but she shook her head
and eyed Darius. “And I would have been if it wasn’t for Darius.”

Darius smirked. “Why, you’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you,” she said. He grumbled, opening his mouth to retort when she hugged him deeply. “But that was truly brave.”

“It was nothing,” he said, waving it off, but Lucky thought he saw his cheeks redden, “still, I wasn’t the one who got us out of the cursed pit.”

Ayva nodded, turning to Lucky. “Right. Who is this brave young man?”

“A Lost One, like me and Zane,” Hannah explained.

“A Lost One
and
a hero,” Ayva countered.

Lucky puffed out his chest, feeling pride to the pit of his stomach. He felt as if he was about to float from the ground any second.
I can get use to this hero business. Better than the nasty streets, anyway.

“Well, where to now?” said Hannah.

Lucky cleared his throat, opening his mouth.

“We need to find Gray,” said the roguish one, interrupting, looking over Lucky’s head into the busy desert streets beyond, gripping his leaf-blade tighter. “By now, they’ve surely saved Ezrah with Victasys’ help.”

“But they could be anywhere,” said Ayva, pulling her brown hair behind her ear, biting her lip.

“Then where do we start?”

“Ahem!”
Lucky coughed loudly, and they turned to him at last. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

He sighed, his hands balling into fists. “Dared knows where to go! He can find your friends.”

“Dared?”
Ayva questioned, raising a thin brow.

Lucky smiled and whipped out the pudgy little statue of a man with a flourish. “Dared! He’s my best friend in the whole world.”

Hannah’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny.
Uh oh…
he thought.
Bad idea!
“That’s Zane’s! Lucky… How on earth did you get it?” His eyes darted, looking for a way out.
No, I can’t get away. I’ll have to lie.
Lies flew into his head, but Dared spoke.

The truth, Lucky,
the statue ordered.

He sighed again. “All right, I stole it, okay? But I swear I was going to give it back! When I heard Darkeye was keeping you prisoner, Hannah, I knew I had to be brave like Shade and save you… It was Dared that led me to you. Thanks to him, I learned about the water pipes that wormed deep into the Lair of the Beast, and into that strange cavern. But there’s no time for the whole story, I’ll explain the rest later, okay?”

“Why later?” Darius asked.

“Because Dared says we’re running out of time. We have to get to your friends. Shade needs us!” he said in a hurry and turned, heading down the dusty alley. He looked back.

They all watched him, looking to one another, confused.

“I swear I’m not lying! Well,
this time
at least.”

“He did save us,” Darius said, shrugging.

“Hm. And that statue
is
magic,” Hannah said.

Ayva bent down and touched his shoulder. “Okay, Lucky. Lead the way.”

“Right then!” He said proudly. “Follow me and keep up!” With that, he barreled down the
dirt road, moving into Farbs—its familiar sights and smells, the others on his heels—listening to Dared’s orders as they twisted and turned, moving deeper into the Nobles’ District.

At last, they reached an
adobe house with vines crawling up the outside walls.

There was a strange amount of activity outside, men and women coming and going on foot and on horses. A cart with a wiry-haired man in its driver’s seat sat outside. The foolish man was arguing with a scarlet robed
Reaver
of all things.
Doesn’t the old man know that’s how you get turned into a newt or something worse?
Just then a few Devari, disguised as merchants, broke from the busy street, entering the house’s big double gates. Lucky watched, taking in the courtyard beyond. The green grounds were abuzz—servants, Reavers, and Devari storming about, as if preparing. Tension hung in the air. And even Lucky knew that feeling… It was just like the night the Lost Ones’ home had been attacked.

It felt like
danger
.

It felt like war.

In Lucky’s palm, his fingers grew sweaty, tightening nervously around the little man. Dared grew hot—as if in welcome. And he announced with a gulp, “We’re here…”

Inside the Mind of Madness

S
ITHEL SHUFFLED FORWARD, DRAGGING HIS BAD
leg like a wooden stump. He hated that thing. He’d asked his dark master to fix it but had only received the sinister reply that it would serve as a reminder of his weakness.

Weakness
, Sithel cursed as he moved though the grand halls of the Citadel, ignoring the dozens of Devari and dark Reavers who moved at his side.
It is a curse upon mankind borne by fear… the fear to do what is necessary, to sacrifice anything to become something more… I will not be weak anymore.
The words sounded familiar to that day so long ago, and his vision was pulled away, ignoring the green courtyard and his lavish surroundings, lost in a world of dust, chaos, and brutality.

“Diaon,” the fat man barked, “Grab me the tongs.” Those words and the hissing steam of the bellows pulled Sithel out of his reverie, bringing him back to the dismal real world. He fell back into the sounds of toil all around him—strange beasts and men slogging through the ever-crowded streets beyond the small tent, sweating in the high sun. The smell of sweat, dirt, and blood was thick in the air.

Again, the bellows hissed.

This was the tenth apprenticeship he’d had in less than a year. As an orphan of Covai, he had no choice but to move on each time, accepting his allotted place. He could barely remember each horrible memory as they blurred together: the stench of dead animal from the tannery with those noxious dyes that stained his body for months, or the tailor who made his hands numb with tireless needlework, his words harsh and belittling for every mistake, but this, Sithel knew, was the worst.

The fat man’s small blacksmith tent was cramped and messy, just like any one of the thousands of shops in the largest trading hub in all of Farhaven. A district of a much greater whole—it was the city of Covai, a Great Kingdom, and home to the element of Flesh, a brutal city of life and death, where one toiled and worked their fingers to the bone to get by; or one didn’t, and died. Sithel had known that for all of his dozen summers that he’d been alive, but he never wanted to believe it.

He wanted to believe in something more.

Beyond, through a gap in the tent, Sithel glimpsed the vision of the merchant’s terrace—a segment of Covai that was high above them, like gods watching down upon their creations. It was a place full of wealth and power, with buildings of gleaming gold, silver, and bronze, and terraced balconies, each a castle in its own right. Beyond that, in the greater distance, he saw the infamous Ren Nar Cliffs of the now-forgotten Morrow—the lost Great Kingdom of Wind, shattered during the war.

Suddenly, something smacked him in the back of the head, pain exploding as his vision flashed as he fell to the ground. When his vision returned, he realized he was coughing dust through his mouth and felt something wet—his blood, trickling from his nose. He looked up into the brutish, sweating face of his Sunha—his master. The man was furious, his eyes bulging and jowls jiggling with red-faced fury.

“You!” his Sunha bellowed. “This is the last time you daydream before me! I’ve had enough of it!”

Sithel looked up slowly, spitting blood. He wasn’t willing to give the man a name. He was just one of hundreds of cruel, pitiless men caught up in this pathetic race, clambering to survive. Sithel was more than that. He knew it, but others didn’t yet. He sneered inwardly, gripping the dirt, trying to assume a servile face. They would know, but not yet… Eyes to the ground, Sithel tried to murmur a false apology. “I’m sorry, Master,” he groveled, trying to rise to his knees.

“My patience has reached its limit with you, Diaon,” the man sneered.

“Forgive me, please. It won’t happen again, I swear—”

“—Enough of your lies!” Sunha shouted, ramming his foot into the small of Sithel’s back, creating a shooting pain like he’d never felt before. He’d felt pain, surely, but nothing like this. He tried to catch a breath but couldn’t. His eyes watered, tears flowing down his face and mixing with the sweat and dirt. He waited for it to abate, but it wouldn’t, and he heard himself continue to cry. This only made his Sunha angrier. “You little, sniveling coward!” the man shouted, grabbing a red-hot prong from the nearby glowing furnace. Crowds beyond paid no mind, moving past the tent as if seeing nothing—a Sunha could do this to his Diaon. It was the law of the land. The law of Covai. His Sunha pressed the hot prong into his back.

And Sithel screamed. Hot tears burst anew as he writhed in anguish. If only he could catch a breath… He was suffocating, his vision blurring, lights flashing. Distantly, the smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. Let it end… his mind begged distantly.

Let it all end….

But a part of Sithel, as his body thrashed uncontrollably, dying quickly, was still gazing above, at the merchant’s terrace, towards power and wealth. His Sunha jabbed, over and over, until he felt his limbs stop moving and his breathing slow. At last, he realized the man had stopped, and he took a ragged breath. “I…” he tried to breathe. “Can’t take anymore.”

“Nor can I,” said his Sunha. Sithel looked up, craning his neck painfully to see the fat man’s dark, angry eyes. “It’s forbidden to kill your Diaon, but an accident isn’t unheard of… The governor will give me a new rat, but it will surely be better than you. Your incompetence and daydreaming has reached its end, my Diaon,” the brutish, filthy man sneered with a dark grin, raising a half-finished blade from the glowing fire. Sithel swallowed in fear, eyeing the rough-hewn edge that gleamed a bloody red in the dark tent. Sithel crawled away, trying to back up, but the man advanced, slowly but surely.

“Please,” he entreated, sniveling and continuing to crawl. His back hit the stone bellow. Fear shot through him. “I swear I’ll do better! Give me a chance! Don’t do this! I don’t want to die!” It was true—that above all things he feared. He opened his mouth to beg more, to plead for his life, but knew it would be of no use. His Sunha would kill him and no one would be the wiser. Everything he’d hoped and dreamed for, gone. Another pile of flesh thrown to the wayside.

“Enough begging,” his Sunha said, “Face your death, you miserable worm.”

“An apt reflection,” said another dark voice, filling the tent. The words chilled Sithel to the core—it was a dark rasp like he’d never heard before. A sudden gloom filled the already shadowy tent. The bellows suddenly snuffed, darkness consuming all.

“What is this?” His Sunha sneered, twisting and turning, trying to find the origin of the voice. “Come out, you coward!” It had become strangely quiet outside the tent, and he realized…