City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  Want More?

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  CITY OF STRIFE: An Isandor Novel

  Copyright © 2017 Claudie Arseneault.

  Published by The Kraken Collective

  krakencollectivebooks.com

  Edited by Brenda Pierson and Megan Reynolds.

  Cover by Gabrielle Arseneault.

  Interior Design by Key of Heart Designs.

  claudiearseneault.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  À Jonathan,

  un coeur immense, un ami sans égal et le plus vieux témoin d’Isandor.

  Arathiel pulled himself out of the water, kicking and heaving, his fingers latching onto the uneven wooden planks of Isandor’s docks. He stared at his hands, afraid his grip would loosen once more. Last time, it had let go without his permission, without even warning him it had given up. Drenched and exhausted, Arathiel flopped on his back the moment his entire body was safely out.

  What a wonderful homecoming.

  After more than a hundred thirty years of absence, his city greeted him with a long swim through glacial water. At least, he assumed it was glacial. Late autumn chill must have settled over Isandor, turning the Reonne River coursing at its feet into a deadly frozen trap. Not even that cold was strong enough to pierce the numbness of his senses, however. Arathiel sat up, a sudden thought constricting his heart, and raised his hands. Shivering. Nausea gripped him. Just because he couldn’t feel the cold didn’t mean it wouldn’t affect him. Or kill him. He couldn’t stay put, unmoving.

  Arathiel sprang to his feet. A wide circle of careful onlookers jerked back, surprised by the sudden movement. Their gazes remained fixed on him as he gained a tentative balance, arms spread and dripping. It would have been easier if he could have felt the docks under his feet, but that too had been stolen by the Well, sapped away through the decades. Arathiel had adapted since he’d escaped the magical trap, but his peculiarities still set many ill at ease. Not hard to imagine, really, once you put yourself in their shoes.

  They had seen a black man clamber out of the icy water wearing nothing but a strange patchwork of multiple outfits, sewn together from scraps. His hair had turned as white as the snow which would soon fall on the city. By all rights he should be a useless and shivering mess on the ground, but instead he’d jumped up with the energy of a youth—and indeed, he couldn’t look older than thirty despite the white hair. A bloodied red line ran along his forearm, obviously recent, yet it didn’t pain him. A gift from the crew that had forced him to jump overboard, so close to his destination. The sailors must have figured out he couldn’t taste, smell, or sense what he touched, and it had scared them. Arathiel didn’t blame them. The world was full of dangerous mysteries, and one of them had been travelling on their ship.

  He didn’t want to wait and see what fear could trigger in the dock workers, however. Arathiel wrung his clothes, and cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.”

  “Go away!”

  Arathiel wondered who had yelled that, but his muffled hearing made it hard to pinpoint the source. Before he could hurry on his way, a second voice called to him. “Hey, are you all right?”

  A petite woman pushed through the crowd, brown hair held by a triangular scarf. She stomped up to him, high leather boots contrasting with her flowery skirt, and glared at the wide circle that had formed around them. When she reached for his forearm, Arathiel withdrew.

  “F-Fine, yes.” Were his teeth chattering from the cold, or from the stress? He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  “Are you new in town? Do you need somewhere to stay? Help to get there?”

  Arathiel stared, reeling from her concern. Around them, the ring of dockers and other workers dissipated, moving along. Several still threw wary glances his way. Caution and threats were more frequent reactions to him than the insistent helpfulness Arathiel now faced. “I’m … not sure.” After all, he wasn’t new, but the prospect of knocking home—at the Brasten Tower, where he’d not set foot in a hundred thirty years—didn’t excite him. Not yet. “Any suggestions?”

  “You bet! I’m the queen of suggestions!”

  She motioned for him to go first, and after a hesitant step, Arathiel moved forward. Although she needed almost two steps for each of his long stride, her vibrant energy allowed her to keep up with ease. Arathiel’s new companion listed potential inns to greet him, most located in the Middle City—the buffer section between the poor neighbourhoods of the Lower City, and the rich noble towers of the Upper City. After a while, Arathiel stopped her.

  “I can’t afford these.”

  This time, she turned to take a good look at him. Her lips pinched. “Of course. Should’ve known, with rags like these …” Something in her tone indicated the state of his clothes irritated her more than anything else. “Respectable establishments turn you away, don’t they? But I wouldn’t recommend most of those in the Lower City. They’re as likely to steal what you have left as to house you. Except—oh, I know!” She clapped her hands, and Arathiel’s heart leaped at her enthusiasm. “You should find the Shelter!”

  “The Shelter.” He liked the sound of it. One would hope the place meant to live up to its name.

  “Rumours say they let anyone in, and offer free meals. Kind of a last resort, but I’ve yet to hear a single bad story about it. Its patrons boast the food is miraculous—so good whoever owns this place must have been a high-class chef.”

  Arathiel allowed himself hope. Perhaps they wouldn’t be as welcoming as rumours promised, but he had to try. Where else would he go? He didn’t have the courage to face his family—or, well, their descendants—yet. “Sounds like what I need,” he said. “You have my thanks, um …”

  “Branwen. Lady Branwen Dathirii, to be exact, but don’t let it bother you.”

  His breath caught. A Dathirii? Of course the elven noble house would still hold power in Isandor. Their natural lifespan covered several centuries. His throat raw, Arathiel belatedly realized other elves he’d known before leaving would h
ave survived. He stared at Branwen, trying to remember, but he doubted he’d met her. Too young. As a human, he’d have put her in her mid-thirties, which meant she must have been born within a decade of his departure from Isandor, either before or after. Temptation flickered through him, gone as quickly as it’d come. He could tell her who he was, ask to speak with the older members of the family. House Dathirii had always been welcoming. The idea twisted his gut, however, and Arathiel discarded it.

  “I’m Arathiel. Thank you.”

  “Can you get there by yourself?” she asked.

  He nodded then parted from her without another word, barely hearing her wish him luck. Once he’d left her behind, he turned his attention to Isandor.

  The city Arathiel remembered no longer existed—not to him, at any rate. Once, the cluster of sharp spires perched on a cliffside had been stunning in their irregular shapes and bright colours, each building an attempt to outshine the others with beautiful glasswork, forests of pinnacles, or cascading waterfalls. Now the colours were mostly gone for him, the towers a greyed blur to his damaged eyes, their life and beauty stolen from him. In a way, his city had become a reflection of himself: half-alive, a pale imitation of what it had once been.

  At least the Upper City had changed beyond that. He’d noticed blooming gardens from the ship and, even down here, he could spot luscious vines hanging from every bridge. He wondered how many new archways had been built, connecting the towers hundreds of feet above the ground, forming an intricate network of paths. He would have ample time to discover. He was home now.

  The thought brought nothing but a tightness in his chest. It had been a mistake, returning. A lot would have changed. His family would be long dead, taken by time or illness. He should have said goodbye instead of promising to return. But now, so many decades later, his home would be taken over by their descendants. Would there even be anything left for him? Would they believe he hadn’t perished a century ago, as should have happened? Improbable. But where else could he go? Arathiel had grown tired—tired of not feeling rough wood under his hand, tired of not smelling the salty sea or earthy autumn air, tired of not tasting even allegedly spicy meals. Tired of being alone, a shadow, always one step removed from the world. One day, he would need to face his family.

  He pulled his hood up and hurried into Isandor proper. Passing through bustling areas of a city was like standing behind a glass wall, looking into the world. Dock workers pushed large crates around or sorted the latest loads of fish, but he could smell neither the sweat of the former nor the pungent stench of the latter. Their yells sounded muffled and distant, as though hands pressed against his ears. Sometimes Arathiel’s gaze caught a cloak snapping in the wind, but the gusts weren’t strong enough for him to feel their push. He could guess what he should perceive, which made the dull absence even harder to bear.

  He was glad to reach the Lower City, all sloped streets and alleyways snaking at the feet of Isandor’s towers. The stench of refuse and unwashed bodies should be stronger here, choking him, but his throat wasn’t even a little raw. Half of Isandor’s population crammed into tiny apartments around him, and Arathiel couldn’t smell a single one of them. He hated this. He was home, but here the distance and numbness hurt more than anything. Home, yet not all there, not really. Arathiel took a deep, steadying breath, fighting off the creeping doubts. He had grown up in Isandor. If he couldn’t find himself here, he never would.

  ✵

  Towers blocked what daylight remained by the time Arathiel reached the recommended Shelter: a tiny wooden house, built in the nook created by two towers at the very heart of the Lower City. Branwen Dathirii’s promises echoed in his mind, a glint of hope in an otherwise difficult day. Arathiel wished someone with such reputed culinary talent could prepare a meal even he would taste, but studying the building now, he suspected a gross exaggeration.

  Years of downpours and wind had battered some of its planks while others seemed new, nailed on top of the spaces between old ones. The roof was also a sloped mismatch, all cracks and quick fixes, barely holding together. Rain must slip through and drip inside. At least they had a chimney, which meant a fire to keep everyone warm. Arathiel approached the door—heavy and solid, newer than most of the building, but a little too small for its hole. A perfect entry for the cold wind to sneak in at night. In fact, it probably did now, even if Arathiel couldn’t feel the gusts on his bare arms.

  Arathiel stood in front of the door in silence for several minutes. He shook the mud off his boots, wrung his wet clothes again, glanced around. What if they turned him away, despite promises of accepting anyone? What if he remained too bizarre even for them? But what other choice did he have? If they didn’t accept him here, he might never find a room. This was his best bet. He would freeze outside, even if he didn't feel the cold creeping up on him. Arathiel straightened his outfit as much as he could, then put his hand on the door. A distant pressure on his palm bypassed his numbness as he pushed and entered the Shelter.

  The buzz of conversations enveloped him right away, closer and warmer than at the docks. Dozens of people sat around small tables or on the floor with bowls and mugs before them. Many huddled near a tiny fireplace, the only stone feature in the room. Arathiel had expected the floor to be in as bad of shape as the walls and roof but instead found brand-new wooden boards, clean except for the day’s mud. Nothing a sturdy mop wouldn’t wash away. Was this where people slept? They’d have warmth, protection from the elements, and clean ground. Luxuries, for most of them. No wonder they seemed so upbeat. Conversations were carried in loud voices instead of shady whispers, and laughter replaced the insults more common to lowly taverns. On the other side of the room, three musicians gathered around strange instruments: wooden spoons attached together, a metal rod and empty crates, and a rundown violin. The spoon-wielder sat on a chair, nodded to her companions, and snapped her heel against the ground. The sharp sound surprised Arathiel, carrying across the crowd so loud and clear even he caught it. Then they were off, lively music dancing in the air, bringing cheers from other patrons. The atmosphere dragged a smile out of Arathiel. He spotted an empty table and sat, searching for a waiter, wondering if there even was one.

  A startling cheer caught his attention, and Arathiel turned his gaze to a section near the back of the Shelter. They'd pushed four tables together, forming an uneven surface. At its centre stood a large dessert plate covered with caramel-and-nut apples stacked atop one another. Several customers had gathered around. They all raised their mugs except the young half-elf who presided over their table. His brown cheeks turned a deeper shade as the circle of friends downed their drinks. Amid the mostly human crowd were a wary dark elf—not full-blooded, if one judged by his smaller ears, but with the same obsidian skin as others of his race—and an overweight halfling. As everyone lunged for their apple, the halfling’s gaze met Arathiel’s, then widened. He nudged the dark elf, pointed his way, then climbed off his chair. They looked worried. Arathiel ground his teeth and forced himself not to dash for the door.

  As he wove his way between the tables, the halfling spoke to other customers—a few jokes, a laugh, an encouragement, then he moved on. Sometimes Arathiel lost track of him. Small even by his race’s standards, he vanished behind tables and slipped between everyone’s legs with remarkable ease. He eventually reached Arathiel, and his smile diminished after a quick inspection.

  “Are you okay? You must be freezing. It’s too cold for a midnight bath, you know.” Concern shone in his stark blue eyes, adding a layer of seriousness to his quip. “I’ll bring you a towel to dry yourself, and you should move to that table there, closer to the fire. It just won’t do to have you—”

  “I’m fine,” Arathiel blurted. How did one deal with so much concern after the wariness everyone treated him with? “All I need is a room. A meal, too, perhaps.”

  “And warmth.” The halfling smiled, an encouragement to accept, a promise Arathiel could trust him. “I’ll get you the mea
l and room, but please take the towel and dry yourself. As a favour to your host.” He motioned toward the half-elf being celebrated—the one who'd lived at most twenty years and certainly shouldn’t own a place like this. “It’s his birthday. Can’t refuse that to him.”

  “This place belongs to him?”

  “You’re really new, aren’t you?” He laughed, then extended his plump hand, standing on the tip of his toes to reach higher. “Let’s start from the beginning. I’m Cal. That’s Larryn, and yes, he’s the owner and cook. Did anyone tell you how things work around here?”

  The notion that he was new to Isandor when he’d lived here more than a century ago amused Arathiel, but it wasn’t wrong. He’d just arrived. Nothing like this Shelter had existed before. Arathiel shook Cal’s hand, ignoring how his own trembled from cold he couldn’t even feel.

  “Arathiel B—” He bit back his family name. House Brasten might still stand, and impersonating a member of Isandor’s noble families would get him imprisoned. He had to be careful whom he told, and find a way to support his claims. Records from a hundred thirty years ago might not suffice. Curiosity lit Cal’s gaze, so Arathiel hurried to the next topic. “I was informed you offer free meals and beds and allow everyone inside.”

  He tried to make it sound like the ‘allow everyone’ hadn’t worried him, but from the sad expression passing over Cal’s features, he’d failed.

  “You have to pay for rooms,” he explained. “We take what you can give. If you have no money at all, you can sleep on the floor. You’ll have a blanket and we keep the fire warm, and tomorrow morning there’s a free meal for everyone.”

  Arathiel reached for his coin pouch. When his fingers closed over thin air, his heart clenched. Gone again. Had it sunk in the Reonne when Arathiel had jumped ship? Or did a thief snatch it? He’d never know, like he’d never found out what had happened to the last six. He didn’t feel the weight of his purse, nor most people bumping into him. With a sigh, Arathiel reached for a second pouch hidden close to his heart. After the first two thefts, he’d learned from his mistakes. He was home now, in the city for good. He poured the few emergency coins he had left on the table.