Citadel of Fire

Chapter Thirteen

THE VOIDSTONE

Ezrah sat hunched over the ancient tome.

            He cursed softly.  What was he looking for? 

Soft light flickered from his lantern as it sat nearby on the polished table.  The table was worn and smoothed by touch from centuries of use.  The flame in the glass lantern was real, though it was fueled by his power.  He’d made sure it was soft and white—a perfect hue for reading.  Otherwise, aside from several orange flames in brackets upon the walls, the library was shrouded in darkness.

He was in the most restricted library of the Citadel, high in the dark keep, a place of power and knowledge.  Only Arbiters and their servants were allowed here.  It was the most secure place in the entire castle.

He turned the page.  It crinkled, crisp and brown from age—perhaps the oldest book in the entire Citadel.  That made it one of the most ancient tomes in all of existence.  Still, it held nothing.  He gave a thin sigh and pushed it aside.

            He looked up.

Outside, the city shone golden.

Farbs.

It was a dangerous and beautiful city.  He loved the Great Kingdom of Fire, but dark events now conspired in the heart of his home.  He sought to put an end to it.  He would not let the world be consumed by shadow.  It seemed hard to believe, seeing the lights and beauty outside that large, paned window.  A city full of life.   Beyond the walls, in the city itself, people amassed in celebration.  He could almost hear the sounds of laughter and cheers as a round of fireworks exploded in the night, illuminating the sky a bright red. 

The Festival of the Moon.

            It was the reason there were no guards watching the far door, and no red-liveried servants to dust the nearby shelves.  It was utterly quiet.  The shadows nearby reminded Ezrah of his duty.  Drawing a deep breath, he grabbed another book from his large stack.  Tu Redghao a’ Yronia read its spine with faded gold lettering, or, in the common tongue: The Reliquaries of Yronia.  It was about the Great Hold, the treasury of the Kingdom of Metal, home to the Ronin once-named Baro.  Yronia was no more, sadly.  It was one of the few Great Kingdoms out of the nine that had been destroyed in the great war of the Lieon.  Backed against the Summits of Soot was a cloudy mountain range, resembling and named after the white soot that used to burn from the once-famous Great Forge of Yronia.  It still existed, but the city had been abandoned since the war.  He had seen it, long ago.  The kingdom now was little more than a ruined mass of steel, its great walls twisted and melted while wind blew hollowly through its cavernous insides. 

The tome in Ezrah’s hands was old, but not nearly as old as the others.  He almost set it aside, but hesitated.  He had heard faint rumors of dark things stirring in the Kingdom of Yronia.  Perhaps…

            He peeled back its heavy cover and read.  Time passed, and he grew engrossed in the pages with their ancient objects of magic: A long and plain rod of silver that could divine the truth in words when both bearers touched it; an intricate statue of a woman holding a baby that could make something grow faster—what it grew exactly Ezrah couldn’t decipher; a cone-shaped object made of purple metal that could alter one’s voice—or simply amplify or nullify all sound in a room.  Nearly all were objects of great magic, and all were lost to the sands of time.  Each had been created long ago when Reavers were at their most powerful.  Ezrah felt his blood stir.  He wished he’d been alive to question those ancient Reavers and their vast knowledge.  Of course, one man had been alive since the Lieon.  The Patriarch, ruler of the Citadel, still lived.