Citadel of Fire (The Ronin Saga Book 2) (9 page)

Gray was silent, his eyes a bottled storm. Ayva had seen that look before—she hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid or rash.

Faye snorted indifferently. “Well, I do hope you’ll tell me, but either way, the real reason is that an Untamed will fetch a heavy gold purse from the Citadel’s coffers. Of course, I could kill him and drag his corpse back, but a dead Untamed isn’t much use to the Citadel. Granted, they’d prefer that over him wandering about and causing mayhem.” She paused and looked down at the sword at her feet. Morrowil. She slowly knelt, keeping her crossbow and sword outstretched. “Now this… I have never seen anything like it. Truly a blademaster’s sword. Whom did you steal it from?” She looked up. “Move a muscle and I will kill you both before you can say, ‘I’m a dead fool’.” With that, she sheathed her crossbow and reached for Morrowil.

She touched the blade and gasped, crying out in pain and falling to her knees. She dropped both weapons and clutched her stomach, vomiting violently. At last, she looked up through bleary-eyes. Still, she breathed thinly as if she’d been punched hard in the gut. “You…
How?
Such pain… How do you bear it?”

Silently, Gray reached out. The blade lifted into the air as if on its own, falling into his hand. “I am its true wielder. It doesn’t pain me.”

Faye looked confused and bewildered. “You… You’re no Reaver. That was wind…” If she looked fearful before, now she looked terrified as if she looked upon a monster, and yet… Ayva couldn’t read the woman’s features. Something about her looked almost excited.

Around them, the forest began to rumble as if waking from its slumber. The ground rattled beneath her feet as if an army marched beneath them.
The music of the forest, calls of animals, and all else went silent in its wake.

The woods shimmered. “What’s going on?” Ayva asked, fearfully.

“This sanctuary is no longer safe…” Faye said slowly, rising.

The rumbling grew louder. Ayva’s whole body shuddered, terror rising inside her as reality seemed to rip in two.

“Dice!” Darius cried. “This is the end!”

Gray roared over the rumble. “No longer safe? What do you mean?”

Faye shouted as the world began to disappear.
“They
are coming.”

The Underbelly

Z
ANE TWIRLED HIS RUSTY DAGGER.
I
TS
dulled point spun in a well-worn rut in the stone.
His
rut. It was the only place in the world where he felt safe to sit and think, where he didn’t feel a blade creeping closer to his back. His finger touched the dagger’s base, stopping it each time before it fell. He sat upon a stone ledge, watching the river flow in the corner of his eye.

He was in the sewers of Farbs, often called the Underbelly. Tan, earthen brick surrounded him, hanging above his head. The stone was cut at sharp angles as if sheered by magic. Meanwhile, the gurgle of water was ever-present, echoing faintly off the cavernous walls.

While it was relatively clean, it was still the Underbelly. Moss and mildew clung to the corners of the stone and near the water’s bank. A few paces away, his dark cot lay, his few belongings tucked in the corner. Hannah’s bed was not far from his, though she had made it more of a home. A green awning covered hers, and stacked boxes she’d gathered made a sort of makeshift fort. Bits of jewelry lay on a nearby box, and a thick nail held a few of her different cloaks.

Zane looked down. In his other hand was the strange statue—the squat, silver man with a sword resting across his lap. It was cold and smooth, save for the sharp point of the sword. As his thumb rubbed the figurine, his thoughts churned and guilt burned his insides, thinking about the Devari and the old man.
What am I waiting for?
“I must be going crazy,” he whispered, spinning the dagger harder.

“I wouldn’t argue with that,” a voice answered.

Zane looked up, clutching his dagger, as Hannah entered from the arched entry beyond, the only entrance in the cavernous room aside from the watery canal. “Sister…” She was a few years younger than him and pretty, with hazel eyes and flaxen hair. She had a round face, but when she smiled, it was perfectly shaped. He had worked hard to protect such beauty and innocence in this foul place.

Hannah’s gaze fell to his shoulder, gasping. “What in the seven hells did you do to yourself?”

“I was attacked,” he said simply with anger in his voice, but not towards her.

Cursing, Hannah dropped the bundle in her arms, rushing to his side.

“Those fools tried to sneak up behind me in an alley after I stole their gold, but they’re clumsy as a six-legged cerabul.” She
tsked
through her teeth, chiding him, her eyes full of concern and fire as she examined his wound. His insides twisted at the sight, her big, worried eyes sending him a pang of guilt, and he muttered, “It’s not as bad as it looks. Besides, I took a couple of those dark pills Father gave me in case of a moment like this. They’ve dulled the pain quite a bit.”

“Dulled your senses too,” she said and touched his arm, wincing. He followed her eyes. He’d taken his vest off, and now a tear in his shirt from Grom’s hammer exposed bloodied skin and a dent in his flesh. It’s true, the drugs fuzzed his mind a little, but the pain was mostly drowned by his burning anger. “It doesn’t hurt at all?”

He shook his head. “Only a little,” he lied.

Hannah sighed, grabbing a shirt from her nearby bed, ripping it into strips, and wiping the blood free. “How could you not get this healed?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Well, I suppose that was smart. But I’m not sure if I can heal this, Z. I’ve only healed scrapes and bruises with the spark. This is… ” she swallowed. “I’ll have to set the bone back in place. Using flesh is more difficult than most other elements. I could set it wrong and you’d be in pain for the rest of your life, or I might just grow you another arm.”

Zane spun his dagger. “Sounds useful.”

“I’m serious, Z.”

He stopped his spinning dagger. “I trust you.”

“Of course you do,” she sighed again. “You always trust me.”

“Have you ever given me reason not to?”

She grumbled something beneath her breath but moved closer to his side, sitting upon the stone ledge, and she closed her eyes, concentrating. Her cold hands touched his shoulder. Zane’s skin prickled. The hairs on his arm rose as her threads sunk beneath his flesh. “The bone is fractured,” she griped. “An Untamed should not be doing this. This is a Reaver’s work.”

“A Reaver would never help me,” he replied in a burning whisper. But as his other hand rubbed the statue, he remembered that man. Ezrah. He should have asked him to heal his shoulder. The man seemed powerful. Surely he was a Reaver of some rank. But at the time, more pressing things had commanded his attention.

“This is going to hurt,” Hannah declared.

Zane grunted in understanding.

Suddenly, he gasped as his heavy muscles twisted, being pulled aside. Despite the drugs and all the pain tolerance he’d developed over the years, it truly hurt. His dagger fell from his grip as pain lanced through his limbs. He cried out. The sound echoed off the cavernous walls, mixing with the babble of water. His eyes sprouted tears and blackness threatened, but he held on to consciousness. Muscles made way as bone shifted back into place, and then cracks were filled. At last, the muscle was laid back on top, and flesh was knit. He felt every bit of it, searing and sharp.

At last, Hannah stepped away, sweat upon her tan brow. She gave a rattled breath. “There, I think it is done.” She squinted at him, looking impressed. “I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but were it anyone else, they’d have passed out or worse from the pain of a healing of that severity.”

Or worse?
Zane wondered, but didn’t want to ask. He rubbed his shoulder, feeling smooth flesh where broken skin had just been. “You’ve got it backwards. Anyone can take a beating, but you and your magic… That is truly special, Tovai.” The name meant ‘beloved’ in sand tongue, a term of affection between brothers and sisters. Realizing how he sounded and seeing the surprise on Hannah’s face, he cleared his throat gruffly. “Thanks,” he added at last, a little more under his breath.

Hannah merely smiled. “Of course.”

Zane returned to spinning his dagger, thoughts spinning as well
. Ezrah… that Devari… burning magic from the air… the Citadel… a blue orb… that wretched man, Sithel… and even the shadowy enigma, Darkeye…
Each flashed in his mind’s eye, one after the other.

“What is that?” Hannah asked, shattering his thoughts. He looked up to see she had pointed to the statue. “And where’d you get it?”

Zane’s thumb froze on the silvery surface. He eyed the squat little man with the sword that rested across his lap. A memory flashed before his eyes as if he was seeing again the strange old man shedding a hundred years of age from his face in a mere second.

“Well?” she asked.

He debated lying, but he would never lie to Hannah. Anyone but her. Reluctantly, he told her about Ezrah and Sithel and Darkeye. He recounted the events of the procession, softening the accounts of violence.

Nearby, a wide stream ten paces wide flowed slowly as she listened.

“What are you going to do?” she asked when he finished at last.

He rose, shaking his head as he watched the churning waters. His fist clenched around his dagger’s handle. “I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do for once. I can’t save the Devari because I don’t know where he is. That is, if he even is alive. And the same is true for the old man.” He felt weird calling the man
old
. Sure, he was older than Zane, but he appeared too wise to be simply called old.
Father
was old—this man was ancient. Father, of course, wasn’t Zane’s actual father, though he was as close as anything Zane had ever had to a dad.
Father
was a protector of the weak. He looked over all of them, Hannah and the other Lost Ones—if Darkeye was the scourge of the Underbelly, Father was the savior.

“And this man, Ezrah, he gave you that?” she asked, nodding at the statue. Zane nodded. “Can I see it?” He reluctantly handed it over, and she fondled it carefully as if it would break. “It’s beautiful, but strange.”

“Can you sense anything in it? Any magic?”

Her brows furrowed. “I’m not sure,” she said. Her eyes narrowed, and her round face pinched attentively. At last, she sighed, shaking her head in frustration and disappointment. But beneath that, she looked exhausted. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”

“You shouldn’t expend any more energy. Remember what Father told us. As an Untamed, you don’t know your limits. Without proper training, it would be easy for you to go beyond them. You could die.” An Untamed was a wielder of the spark who was not trained by the Citadel. Untamed were looked down upon, feared by most people as a danger to themselves and others. Zane knew that wasn’t true. Not entirely at least, but he did fear for her. Since they were little, Hannah had been sought by the Citadel. More than once, he had pushed her to become a Reaver for her safety, but she refused each time. He understood her hesitance. He felt his blood rise even thinking the word Reaver.

“Thanks for that reminder.”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s always the truth with you. And I’m fine. It’s just a little headache,” she said while standing, and staggered. Zane was there in a flash, grabbing her and lowering her to her bedroll beneath her awning.

“This is why I’m the one who lies for us. You’re a horrible liar.”

Hannah didn’t resist as he laid her down in her bed, pulling her blankets up. A small sweat had formed across her forehead.
Spark fever,
he knew, cursing his foolishness. He had taken too much from her with the healing. She didn’t know her limits. He wet one of the cloth strips from the waterway, and knelt at her side, cooling her brow.

“You’ve used too much of the power. You’re having a spark fever. It will go away soon, but you need to rest, all right?”

Eyes closed, Hannah nodded weakly.

Zane rose. He felt fingers clench around his hand, stopping him. “Where are you going?” she whispered, eyelids fluttering open.

The old man’s silence and the debt for the Devari had turned Zane into a cauldron of anger and confusion. And he was tired of stewing in his own wrath. He had to do something.

Gently, he peeled her fingers free. Grabbing a dark pill from his pack, he sat back at her side, patting her warm skin. He wished he had some Silveroot, but remembered that it would do nothing for a malady of the spark. Silveroot healed the body, and the spark was the mind. “I’m not going anywhere,” he answered. “I’ll be right here. Now take this.” Hannah grabbed the dark pill and swallowed it.

She gave a sigh of relief then asked, “Brother?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re all right,” she whispered and then was asleep.

Zane laid back, resting at her side, thoughts turning back to the Devari and Ezrah. He held the statue that now stood tall—the little man looking almost proud. The statue’s closed eyes looked calm, mocking Zane’s broiling thoughts. He looked to Hannah, watching as she muttered in a fever dream.