City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Branwen wished she’d paid more attention to the temple when she had first investigated the Myrian Enclave. Apart from Varden’s status as High Priest, she knew little of their organization. They had at least two ordained priests and a bunch of acolytes. According to her discussions with the guards, almost everyone in the enclave had wound up here after causing trouble in Myria. Even their leader, Master Avenazar, had razed a neighbourhood in a fit of petty anger. Nothing reassuring there. She pulled at her shirt, swallowing hard, trying not to think of what he could unleash on her family.

  Her emergency disguise finished—at least until she found a sewing kit—Branwen moved to the second part of her plan: gather information on High Priest Varden Daramond. She’d found nothing but surface details on him over the last two years. Her gaze went straight for the desk: a common hiding place, and Varden’s already had the marks of a personal space. He had hung portraits of other Isbari above it, all done in charcoal or pencils. Branwen moved closer, amazed at the quality and life in them. Each stroke carried a powerful emotion, and the artist had managed to capture incredible details in black and white. On the old man it was every sun-baked wrinkle, on the pregnant lady it was the waves of her thick hair and the many tears in her worn robe. She extended her hand to touch but pulled it back in time. She didn’t want to ruin them.

  Branwen snapped herself out of the impressed daze. Artistic considerations weren’t a priority. She sifted through the papers on top of the desk and found nothing of real use before starting on the drawers. In the second rested a sewing kit, and with a prayer of thanks to Ren the Chance Master for lending Xir luck, Branwen fixed her disguise. She sewed points to hold the sleeves and pants, then stored the kit back where she’d taken it. At least now it wouldn’t fall apart at the worst possible moment.

  When she pulled on the last drawer, it remained closed. Locked. Her heartbeat quickened at the excellent sign. Everyone kept the darker things behind a lock. She slid her lockpicks out of her sleeves, crouched down, and slipped them inside the keyhole. The poor mechanism was no match for her skills, and before long the click-click of her tools became the deeper sound of a latch giving in. Branwen held back a squeal and opened the drawer.

  She found four thick sketchbooks and a box with charcoals. Branwen’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at the portraits on the wall. Had he drawn them? Were those the people Varden Daramond had left behind? She knew his church had sent him here. Branwen hadn't found ties to anyone in Myria, though—not that she could easily look into it from so far away. She brushed the cover of a sketchbook, then cracked it open. Her fingers shook a little. Invading a merchant’s privacy never bothered her, but with art it felt wrong.

  More portraits waited inside. Countless drawings, all of Isbari folks. Many had chains at their feet, others seemed too poor to afford clean clothes. They were old and young, men and women, skinny and fat. All had dark hair and tanned skin, often with broad shoulders and prominent noses. Sometimes, defiant pride shone in their eyes and their shoulders were squared. Most, however, stooped and didn’t look in the artist’s direction. Branwen’s throat became tighter as she flipped through. Small dates were scribbled at the bottom—these were more than two years old, from a time when Varden had still been in Myria. She closed the sketchbook, shaken by the defeated sadness that permeated so many of the portraits.

  The next was easier to browse through. Varden apparently enjoyed sitting in front of fire and drawing it, over and over. His lines had more movement here, even she could tell. The third sketchbook was still empty. Branwen expected the same of the fourth and was starting to wonder if the lock had hidden any secrets at all.

  Then she opened the last sketchbook to a random page and found herself staring at a quick profile of a naked man. A very hot naked man, with sculpted muscles drawn in precise details. One drawing might have counted as an anatomy study, but Branwen flipped the pages and realized male nudes occupied all of them. The sketches represented someone different every time, and she doubted they were models. Their shapes were too ideal, and she suspected they came out of Varden’s imagination more than anything. Until she reached the last section.

  He had dedicated a third of the book to a specific man—another priest, judging from the occasional images with clothes. Overweight, with a tuft of short blond hair and always the same shy smile. In the naked drawings, he often turned away from Varden, his legs folded, as if trying to hide what he could. Branwen smacked the sketchbook closed, her palms moist. It was becoming hard to think of the High Priest as an evil pyromaniac, and harder still to feel satisfied about unearthing his private life. She stored the sketchbook back in its place, locked the drawer, and sat staring at it.

  This was exactly the kind of information she had needed. Myria did not look kindly upon homosexuality, and as an Isbari, Varden couldn’t afford any mistake. The very idea of threatening him with this made her nauseated. She had nothing else, though. Her guts told her to trust him, but she couldn’t risk being wrong.

  Branwen remained sitting in front of the desk for the longest time, trying to come to terms with a decision, until she heard the doorknob turn.

  She jumped to her feet, her dagger finding its way back to her hand as she sprinted for the door. By the time it cracked open, she waited behind it. The moment the High Priest stepped in, Branwen stretched to the tip of her toes, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled him down to her level. He didn’t resist, letting himself fall to his knees, but when she put the blade back at his throat, he let out a little groan.

  “Again?”

  His voice mixed exhaustion and amusement. Branwen moved fully behind him and pushed the door closed with her foot. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she needed to be in control. “Seems fair. You can toast me at any moment.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m drained, and until I’ve had a full night of sleep in a warm room, I won’t be creating the tiniest wisp of flame. Can’t we talk face to face? Please, I’m … really tired.” His shoulders slumped, which sent a stab through Branwen’s heart. “I’m not an enemy. I let you keep your weapon, didn’t I?”

  “Something tells me you forgot to take it away.”

  A soft chuckle escaped his lips. Varden yanked his head, and she released his hair. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

  Branwen withdrew the dagger to give him room to breathe. Her mind screamed that she shouldn’t, but her heart remembered the portraits.

  “Why burn a well-loved shop while dressed in your full High Priest uniform? Are you that desperate to have the entire city on your ass? I’d have expected vanity to be a sin in your holy gospel. Like, I don’t know … take no pride in thy wealth or appearance, for our pyromaniac clerics will reduce you all to the same ugly, shrivelled, burned pack of meat and bones. Something ridiculous like that.”

  Maybe if she tested his limits, she could get a better sense of how dangerous he was to her—and a priest’s faith was always a touchy topic, right? Except Varden answered with a long and genuine laugh. Branwen watched his shoulders shake with growing unease.

  “Now that would be a sight,” he said. “Equality through fiery death, huh? We do believe in fire’s cleansing properties, but these rites involve protections from the flames, Miss Dathirii.”

  He put two fingers against her blade and pushed it away. Branwen waited for his next move, holding her weapon so tight her knuckles turned white. Varden had something fascinating she couldn’t quite understand, a presence that was slowly getting to her. He had torched an entire shop and brought her to the enemy’s heart, but she found herself drawn in, incapable of enforcing the prudence she knew she ought to show. He dusted himself off, then stood to face her. As his gaze took in her new outfit, the corners of his mouth quirked.

  “You were busy.”

  “I unlocked your drawer.” The words surged out on their own—guilt at snooping around, and the desire to let him know she was more dangerous than he thought. Branwen gritted her teeth and went all the way
. “Nice taste in men.”

  Varden looked like she’d slapped him. Horror fought with indignation as he struggled to remain calm. Though he made no flames with his hands, Branwen could feel the burn in his gaze. She swallowed hard.

  “I’m not gonna tell, okay? I panicked and thought I might need to blackmail you to stay safe.”

  “I saved your life.”

  “You put it in danger to begin with.” Not to mention she wasn’t safe until she left Myrian grounds. “I just wanted to even the odds. Sorry about the whole privacy invasion.”

  Branwen could see his anger below the surface, simmering. He inhaled deeply, however, and as he exhaled, the tension in his body relaxed, and his shoulders sagged.

  “How about we start over?” He sketched a smile, extended his hand. “I’m Varden—”

  “Varden Daramond, High Priest of Keroth, Isbari.” Branwen wasn’t quite ready to let it all go. She wanted to remind him they were on different sides, but fear jumbled her thoughts, and all the information stumbled out. “Almost thirty, no known children, and until today I would’ve said no love affair. You’re a great artist, and I have a feeling you never wanted to come here. Garith and I, we pegged you as our best chance to find an ally inside the Myrian Enclave because of how they treat Isbari. I always thought we shouldn’t bother. You do everything Master Avenazar says. Too scared to disobey.”

  Varden snatched his hand back, and for a brief moment she noticed the flame within. He straightened, glared down at her, and Branwen had the distinct impression she’d said one word too many. A bad habit of hers, that. When Varden spoke again, it was in a low, dangerous tone.

  “I am not scared, Miss Dathirii, I am terrified. An Isbari in Myria has no defence. He walks with his eyes on the ground, praying no Myrian interprets his behaviour as defiance because he knows nothing will protect him or his family. It doesn’t matter whether he’s a slave, a successful merchant, or a High Priest. Titles are smokescreens, illusions. In the end, if you make one false move, you are an uncouth savage to be disciplined, an object that can be thrown away.” His voice had grown louder. “And Master Avenazar? He combines this mentality with incredible fickleness, a cruel sense of humour, and the power to rip your mind into tiny shreds. And one day, I’ll make a mistake, and it’ll be my turn. It’s inevitable. So yes, I’m scared, and yes, I obey.”

  He tried to capture Branwen’s gaze, but she cast her eyes away, too flustered for even the briefest eye contact. These demanded so much out of her, and she already struggled for an appropriate answer, her mouth hanging half-open. There was really none she could give.

  “S-Sorry …”

  Varden raised a hand to stop her and shook his head. “You’re also wrong. I did disobey. Avenazar would have wanted you. I couldn’t do that, no matter the risk to myself. I’ve witnessed his torture before, and unlike Nevian, you would not need to recover. He wouldn’t hold back. I could never let him peel off every layer of your mind that way. So you see, we really are in the same boat now. Either of us gets caught and the other goes down.”

  Varden heaved a sigh and sat at his desk, gripping his knees. His hands shook. The fire crackled. To Branwen, this felt like a second invasion, like witnessing a part of his life—a part of who he was—he could never show in the enclave. She stepped forward and set an awkward hand on his shoulder. He seemed so defeated. Burned out, literally.

  “I was wrong about you.” There had to be something else she could say. “Uncle Diel will beat him, though. You’ll see.”

  He shrugged her off without answering. The silence stretched as he stilled his breath and calmed his shaking hands. “Winter solstice is in a week, and Keroth’s followers will hold the Long Night’s Watch. From sunset to sunrise, everyone will be in the main hall around the sacred brazier where I lead the ceremony. A growing number of wizards and soldiers attend the ritual, and it will be your best chance to slip out undetected. Until then, you’ll have to remain here. I’ll tell you what I know. Is that good enough for you?”

  “I’ll take all you can give me.” What choice did she have? It would be wise to learn what she could while in the enclave. Besides, she had to admit she was fascinated by the Isbari priest. She wanted to know what his life had been like, who the chubby boyfriend was, how he’d wound up in Isandor. All in good time. She needed to settle one last detail first. “Can you get a message out? Send an acolyte into the city? I need to tell my uncle I’m safe.”

  Varden eyed her, then shook his head. “I don’t trust anyone for this, and now that I’ve burned that shop, I won’t risk going into the city. Anyone could spot me, and out of the enclave, I’m not protected by Myrian laws. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they sought to arrest me. Your family will have to deal with its fears.”

  His answer dropped a weight in her stomach, but Branwen didn’t protest. He’d done a lot for her already. “Understood.”

  “Good.” Varden lumbered to his feet, groaning like an old man. It reminded Branwen of how her cousin Vellien had once slept for an entire day after they’d healed a dying man. Clearly channelling a god demanded tremendous energy. “I must rest. You can read on Myria, if you want. Don’t touch my sketchbooks again.”

  Varden gestured to the half-empty bookshelf against a wall, then trudged to the other section of his quarters. He disappeared behind the curtain serving as a cut-off between them, not even waiting for an answer. She listened to him change and collapse to his bed, too shaken to move. A week. Her family would be worried to death.

  Branwen turned to the handful of titles available and took one at random. You never knew what could help later, and at the very least, it would allow her to understand Varden better. She settled down, casting one last glance at the portraits above the desk, then began to read. Yet no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts always returned to Garith and the rest of her family. Her stomach clenched, and Branwen knew the sensation would become a constant companion over the next days. She slid her fingers over the unfamiliar texture of Varden’s flame-decorated shirt and prayed she’d make it home alive.

  Hasryan regretted agreeing to this change in their card games’ location. It had seemed a perfect idea at first, and they were glad Arathiel had felt integrated enough to propose it. Cal could meet new players and wipe their money pouches clean, and after accepting he’d have to endure their presence, Larryn had suggested an establishment catering to rich merchants and young nobles. That way, they’d acquire some of the wealth hoarded by Upper City folks and bring it down to the Shelter. All went according to plan … except they’d scheduled this excursion into the Middle City on the rare night Arathiel couldn’t. Perhaps they should’ve waited, taken his absence as an ill omen. Arathiel had played twice with them, adding his calm humour and silent bluffs to their noisier dynamics. As he sat at a smooth table with their worn-out deck of cards, Hasryan missed his presence and questioned the wisdom of their plan.

  At least they hadn’t chosen the wealthiest establishment. The Skyward Tavern thrived at the frontier between the Middle City and the Upper City, and it linked to a little inn for successful merchants. The floor was clean, the smoke drifting above came from high-class cigars, and nice vines wrapped around the supporting beams. Hasryan counted two exits: the front door and a large window he could climb down from—the tower’s rough exterior featured enough handholds, and it hadn’t rained today. A comfortable pub with an escape route and better beer than most of the Lower City’s taverns. Plus, it was cheap, and they could afford it for one night, especially if Cal lured strangers into playing with them. The halfling’s unnatural luck would cover for their expenses.

  Their plan contained one problem, however: Hasryan himself. Ever since they stepped inside, people stared at him, sometimes pointing accusing fingers and whispering to one another. All he’d done was walk in, order a beer, and sit down with his friends. Too much for a dark elf, apparently. At least Larryn returned every glare tenfold. He sat on Hasryan’s left, his grey eyes scanning the cr
owd, ready to answer any provocation. His high cheekbones provided him with quite the frightening scowl when he wanted to.

  Either Cal was oblivious to the hostile environment, or he didn’t let it show. He often acted casual and pleasant, even when angered. Perhaps because he was so small—a full inch under the halfling average certainly encouraged caution about provoking conflict. His friend’s chubby fingers played with his cards, blue eyes admiring his hand. Hasryan tried to focus on the game. For once, he had a decent chance to win against one of Ren’s priests. Beating Cal would make his day. With a confident smirk, Hasryan set his cards down on the table.

  “Four Lorns,” he declared.

  In Isandor’s slums, most cards had been renamed to fit the city’s major noble families, and not in the most respectful manner. The lowest numbers were reserved for the biggest Houses, while Kings and Queens had been granted to deities. Using the slang so close to the Upper City was of questionable wisdom, however. Anyone looking over his shoulder would realize the Lorns were, in truth, lowly 2s. A tiny insult could spark a fight if the wrong noble heard it.

  Cal chuckled and straightened in his chair. “Oh, I bet you’re very proud of that Lorn House.”

  Hasryan disliked his tone. Cal sucked at bluffing. He didn’t need to lie when he played these games: Ren’s favour followed him, and somehow he always wound up with the best hand. For the longest time, Larryn and Hasryan had been convinced he cheated, but they both excelled at sleight of hand, and neither had ever caught him. It was all luck. Cheaty luck, but luck nonetheless. Hasryan glared at Cal.