“I hope you’re right, for House Almanza’s sake.”
“There are other issues with your idea, Lord Dathirii.”
Lady Carrington’s voice rose from the crowd, and Diel turned toward the older leader with calm, despite the thundering in his heart. He had known tonight would be difficult, known his predicament added suspicious trappings to any of his propositions, but the unending stream of protests mined his morale. Even their curated list of Houses who would benefit the most from the Coalition pushed against it. What would it be this time?
“Please speak your mind, Lady Carrington,” he said. “An enterprise such as the Coalition will fail if we cannot trust one another. I called everyone together instead of requesting individual meetings to dispel all concerns.”
A doubtful snicker punctuated his words. Diel once more pointedly focused on his interlocutor. Grey hair contrasted with her olive skin, and she held herself with poised grace. Lady Carrington had always combined deadly wits with a beautiful smile, and although age added wrinkles to her face, she’d never lost her two weapons. She used the smile now, captivating the group and stealing Diel’s breath.
“Everyone here knows the tragic history of my House, and I will admit a safety net such as the one you suggest might have safeguarded our standing when sickness struck so many decades ago. We sit at the Golden Table by the good graces of our peers and in honour of our historical role in Isandor’s foundation. Without these, House Carrington would be no more. Sometimes, one must fall to discover their own fallibility, or the value of a support network.” She shot a meaningful look at Lady Almanza. “Yet I can’t help but think, Lord Dathirii, that your Coalition is doomed to fail.”
“Explain.” Dread twisted Diel’s stomach. Nice words often preceded the harshest critiques.
“You have used a similar idea with several local merchants. As a bigger force, you provide them with safety and stability. Yet the last few days proved it’s never this simple. Your network abandoned you at the first sign of trouble. You couldn’t protect them, and they won’t risk standing by you.” Lady Carrington kept her tone matter-of-fact. With or without mockery, however, her words brought a bitter knot to Diel’s stomach. He could not deny them. “How can we ensure the Coalition won’t fail in similar ways?”
“It is not the same beast. In the Coalition, we would be equals. We—”
“You couldn’t even protect your niece!”
Diel flinched at the raspy voice. The words echoed in his skull, creating a buzzing pressure. Had they come from Lord Serringer? He couldn’t quite tell. But the accusation rang between his ears, the sound twisting into a mocking sneer. Where was Branwen now? What were they doing to her? The questions seized his mind, blotting everything else out. Black spots crept in at the edge of his vision, and Diel blinked them away. Everyone stared at him. His mouth was dry, his legs shaky. Had he zoned out? How long? He needed to stay alert, to stay with the conversation. Fear and exhaustion ate at him, but he couldn’t afford this kind of slip. Diel snapped his attention back to the small crowd, burying his gnawing doubts.
“Really?” He allowed a bitter smile to reach his lips. “Everyone tells me the Myrians are not a threat—that they don’t see the necessity to fight against them. How many around the Golden Table believed they should be treated like any other House? Yet despite Master Avenazar’s denial about Branwen, despite everyone insisting the Myrians aren’t dangerous, you all conclude pretty quickly they did take her. So which is it? I’m asking you now, since you can’t seem to make up your mind: friendly traders or ruthless conquerors?” He spread his arms, his exasperation growing. “Because if you believe they have her, if you think they are hurting her, then this is your chance to do something about it, to drive them out of the city!”
Resounding silence followed his words. Nobles shuffled in their seats and cleared their throats. No one looked back to him, or cheered, or even nodded. After minutes stretched on, Lady Almanza sighed and waved through the air in dismissal.
“I’m not getting involved. You make valid points, Lord Dathirii, but unless you can guarantee immediate protection, I want no part in this. You’re right: the Myrians will attack us. I refuse to risk my family for yours.”
She stood, and it acted as a signal for everyone. They rose, talking to each other, shaking their heads.
“You’ll just be next,” Diel said over the murmur of the crowd. He didn’t like the desperation in his voice. “Sooner or later. Either we stand together now, or we all fall.”
“Yes, so you keep repeating.” She shrugged, dismissive and calm. “Find soldiers, and I will reconsider this offer. Many of us will, I suspect.”
Her declaration provoked whispers of agreement, then his guests filed out. One by one, they left the restaurant, shoving winter hats over their heads and buttoning up their coats.
He had failed. The Myrians had painted a bright target on his family and no one wanted to risk stepping into its range. Yet fear wasn’t the only factor here. If only! Diel could understand protectiveness and didn’t blame others for placing their family’s security above all. As much as Lady Almanza might dread Master Avenazar’s attention, however, it hadn’t motivated her refusal. Apathy had. She was convinced this war would never affect her and didn’t care for the larger consequences of a strong Myrian presence. It wasn’t her family before his, it was her family only. Worse, she’d convinced everyone to follow her short-sighted, individualistic path.
Soldiers, Diel thought bitterly. Isandor’s Houses didn’t have standing armies, only small private guards. With one exception. Since the start of their feud a decade ago, House Allastam had tripled the number of warriors at their service. After the recent capture of Lady Allastam’s assassin, they might need a new occupation. He needed to speak with Lord Allastam.
As the last of his guests slipped out, Lord Dathirii was already forming new plans and arguments. Isandor’s nobles might put more effort into protecting themselves from the cold than from hostile invaders, but he would not let that stop him. He couldn’t. Without them, the Myrians would take over the city, then expand their Empire east. Barring their way required the strength of Isandor as a whole, not one or two houses. The silence left behind by the other nobles made one thing clear. Uniting Isandor would prove harder than defeating Master Avenazar could ever be.
✵
As sounds from the meeting died down, Isra shook her frozen wings and tried to shake herself from her torpor. Cold crept to her feathers and bones, casting a white daze over her mind. Had she fallen asleep? No, she could reconstitute most of what had been said. Enough to report back to Jilssan and make up for her escapade with Nevian. She didn’t understand Jilssan’s adamant statements that it had been a mistake, and that she should be more careful, but she trusted her master’s opinion. If Jilssan believed Avenazar might hurt her, she didn’t want to take the risk. Contributing to their little scuffle with the Dathirii would prove she was a useful member of the enclave, at least.
Even if these political meetings always turned out to be the most boring conversations to spy on. This task shouldn’t have demanded so much energy of Isra, yet as she took flight from her windowsill, exhaustion weighed her wings down. She rarely maintained her hawk form this long, and concentrating on it and Lord Dathirii’s pathetic attempts to convince other nobles to help him had drained her. Add the paralyzing cold, and Isra wasn’t certain how she was even still awake.
She beat her wings faster, trying to push some life into them, soaring higher than necessary. High above the towers of Isandor, their tops gleaming in the fluorescent lights of modified gardens, as ridiculously fancy during the night as they were during the day. She wished she could fly all night, but her shapeshifting abilities wouldn’t allow it. Her body strained to return to its human form, pushing at the magic holding it as if it were a cage. Stupid body. Didn’t it understand the freedom of shapeshifting? Why did it want normal, of all things?
Or perhaps she was just bad at magic
. Every spell she’d ever tried seemed to flee her, magic energy slipping between her fingers. Jilssan had no explanation. She had never heard of anything like it and insisted that Isra first master basic spells. As if those were any easier. If Isra had to spend hours struggling to cast any one spell, she didn’t want to waste time turning apples into trees. She wanted to transform herself and fly.
Isra circled around Isandor’s skies for few minutes, alone. No one to order her around. No one to judge her, mock her, or sneer at her. In summer, she could stay like this forever, hovering high above the city and taking in the sights. Sadly, she had a spy report to make and numbing cold to fight.
She dove back down with an internal sigh, zooming straight for the enclave’s walls and gaining speed with every passing second. She let out a long screech—the closest thing to a cry of exaltation she could muster—then snapped her wings open and curved back up as she neared ground level. The thrill had washed her exhaustion away, leaving behind a frenzied heartbeat and an urge to take off once more. Isra reined her desire in and landed with a few lazy flaps at the top of the enclave’s stone walls.
Time to be human again. Isra let the magic escape at last, sighing as it fled. Her wings became arms, her talons stretched into legs and feet. She pouted and ran a hand through her chosen short blonde hair, to make sure her transformation was complete. Sometimes she worried she’d get stuck halfway through. Isra gripped the amber amulet at her neck, and took a deep breath. Her father might be far away, but his magic remained with her, encapsulated in her necklace. As long as she had it, she would be okay.
Isra slid down the wall and onto the battlements, ready to seek out Jilssan. She had taken two steps when her eyes caught on a shadow across the courtyard. She squinted, regretting that she was no longer in her hawk form and missing the powerful vision it granted her, but she was too exhausted to shift back. Someone climbed the elm tree on the other side, branch by branch, until they could jump onto the walls. Isra’s heart quickened.
They were in the middle of a war with House Dathirii. No one sneaking out at night would do so with good intentions. Her mind reeled from the thought—a traitor. They had a traitor in their midst.
It had to be Varden.
No one else would betray them. But he was always so angry at her and others, couching his words in fake politeness, waiting for the time to unleash his powers. If he was selling them out … He’d turn on them. Destroy them from the inside. She had to warn Jilssan.
Isra ran off, scrambling down the closest flight of stairs. Cold night air hit her cheeks, and she suppressed a shudder. He had always scared her, but she wished her instincts weren’t so right. At least she’d caught him. This would definitely erase Master Avenazar’s ill thoughts of her, no? He had to be pleased with anyone bringing such a betrayal to light.
Anyone. She slowed at the thought. Perhaps she could let the credit for this slide to someone else. Nevian had avoided her since they were caught in Isandor. Would he forgive her if she brought him this information and let him report Varden? He had to! No one else was under twenty in the enclave, and even if Nevian spent all his time working, he was the closest thing to a friend she could get. She didn’t want him to stay angry.
Isra grinned at her flash of genius. What a great night! She would make up to Jilssan with her report on Lord Dathirii and his need for soldiers, and when she next talked to Nevian, she would offer him the chance to wipe his slate with Avenazar clean. After that, Nevian could only like her again. Whistling to herself, Isra knocked on Jilssan’s door, her exhaustion forgotten.
Nevian hated coming to Isandor. No matter how often he’d snuck out successfully, the creeping sensation of being watched returned. Master Avenazar would find out. He always did. And this wasn’t a benign excursion to the city. It was treason, plain and simple, and he would be punished accordingly. If defying pointless rules on his assigned tasks earned him hours of mind torture, what would Avenazar do once he discovered Nevian traded enclave secrets for magic training?
But Nevian could not be blamed. If Avenazar taught him anything, he would endure the abuse. Except he wasn’t learning. He was losing years of potential improvement to Avenazar’s insatiable desire for revenge. Nevian refused to fall behind other apprentices because his former master had provoked Avenazar. He had sacrificed too much to get this far. He would do whatever was needed to keep growing as a wizard.
Right now, this included a deal with Brune, the most prominent mercenary leader in Isandor and one of the only magic wielders in this city who might be able to stand up to Avenazar. Nevian met with her on a regular basis, always in the city, despite the express interdiction against leaving the enclave.
The leader of the Crescent Moon was a muscular woman—unusual for a mage—who did not enjoy smiling. Her wardrobe featured nothing but shades of brown. Pants, robes, blouses, shirts … everything was some variation of brown, including her long hair and eyes. Even her skin was a pale ochre, a fairly common tone in Isandor. More often than not, Nevian wished she were his real mentor. Brune had no patience for wasted time. She went straight to the point, both in her questions and lessons, leaving no room for banter. Nevian loved it. Every second he spent out of the enclave was a terrible risk. The faster they worked, the better for everyone.
He sat at their usual meeting place, a tranquil tea shop owned by the Crescent Moon that closed early in the evening. Minutes trickled by without any sign of Brune, and the location’s usual soothing effect stopped working on Nevian’s nerves. He tapped his middle finger on the table, biting his lower lip, until the mercenary leader finally walked in from the kitchens and slid into the chair opposite him, unruffled by his obvious displeasure.
“You’re early,” she said.
Nevian gritted his teeth. She was half an hour late, and they both knew it. If he’d learned one thing from Avenazar, however, it was not to contradict his superior. He forced himself to stop tapping on the table.
“It’s not easy to sneak out of the enclave. I had no choice.” He might roll with her lie, but not without reminding her he didn’t have a lot of time, and she had just wasted a full thirty minutes of it.
Brune shrugged, a hint of irritation behind her bored mask. Instead of acknowledging his protest, she changed the topic to matters concerning her. “Has news of Hasryan’s arrest reached the enclave yet?”
“The dark elf? Yes. What of it?”
“They will accuse him of Lady Allastam’s murder, ending a long-lasting feud between two of Isandor’s noble families. This could stabilize the political situation, and those closest to House Allastam and House Freitz might look more kindly upon Lord Dathirii’s quest for allies. Who knows? Depending on how he plays it, he could garner enough support to stand a chance against your enclave.” She leaned back into her chair. “It’s unfortunate that this happens in the middle of your little war, and I would appreciate an indication of whether or not Master Avenazar intends to get involved, and if so, how.”
Nevian stared at Brune, baffled by her question, struggling to encompass how Avenazar worked in a single answer. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. “You’re trying to use logic to predict his actions. When our agents reported the arrest, Master Avenazar yelled at them for wasting his time with trivial matters. The enclave’s mission might be to achieve control over Isandor’s politics and assimilate it into the Empire, but Master Avenazar … he doesn’t care. He cares about Diel Dathirii, who made the terrible mistake of giving him personal offence, and added a layer of insult by accusing the enclave of kidnapping his niece and hiding her. Let me tell you, this elven lord has a death wish.”
“You don’t have Lady Branwen Dathirii?”
“No!” Nevian’s heart hammered into his chest, painful and out of control. How could Brune not understand what it would mean? “If we had her, the entire city would know. No detail would be secret. Avenazar would rip every ounce of knowledge from her mind, mocking the Dathirii with the crunchiest parts, daring them to come
rescue her. He’d wipe out her precious memories, maybe cut off a finger or two and have them delivered in special packages. Master Avenazar does not torture in secret. He likes his deed of vengeance to be gruesome and very public. If we held Branwen Dathirii at the enclave, she would be an example of just how far he is willing to go to crush those who defy him.”
His voice shook, and he pushed his hands into his lap to keep them from trembling. He remembered the shrieks of his first master as Avenazar tore her mind to shreds. Sauria had writhed on the ground, clutching at the rug, reaching for him—only to have her outstretched hand promptly incinerated. He had remained frozen, back against the wall, the stench of charred flesh filling his nose and his ears ringing from the shrill screams. Not a sound escaped his lips, not even her name. Nevian tried to shake off the memory. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Once angered, Master Avenazar forgets the consequences of his actions. He will hunt every one of Diel’s relatives, even if the elf is long dead and unable to see it. If he has to raze the entire city, he will. His last vengeance annihilated a whole block. He deprived his victim of all memories before he killed her, yet this didn’t satisfy him. He claimed her apprentice, declared he’d train him to make up for the destroyed property, and he’s still carrying out that particular revenge on him. So if you need to know whether or not Avenazar will do something … ask yourself if it’ll hurt Lord Dathirii, or anyone he cares about. That’s your answer.”
He had said too much. Nevian gritted his teeth and lowered his gaze. He hated revealing anything about his past, but after three years of bottling it, the memory had tumbled out on its own. Brune didn’t belong in Myria, had nothing to do with them, and for the first time, he’d felt free to explain. He had blurted it all out, and his cheeks burned from shame. How unprofessional.
City of Strife Page 15
