Brune clacked her tongue. Her expression hadn’t changed at all. “I feel obligated to remind you our partnership does not include any form of protection. If he finds out you are here, he is yours to deal with. I will defend myself, but nothing else.”
“I know.” Nevian’s hand tightened into a fist. “I was not asking for it.”
What would be the point? No one could protect him, and the consequences of trying were disastrous. Nevian wouldn’t dare demand such a thing. Brune already taught him magic, and with her help, he could progress as a wizard despite Avenazar’s best efforts. Once they returned to Myria, he would petition for a transfer or pass the exams, and this hell would be behind him. Until then, he needed to endure and survive—to never forget the end goal.
“Excellent,” Brune said. “I’m baffled by their choice of leader, but the Myrian Empire is free to send brutes to Isandor if they’re in no hurry to conquer.”
“They think they don’t need better.” Nevian hadn’t reflected upon Myria’s politics, but Isra kept discussing them like an expert, no doubt using information gleaned from Jilssan. It might help Brune, so he endeavoured to repeat what he knew. “Sending Avenazar here was a form of punishment. They got rid of him before his volatile urges to destroy wiped out more than a neighbourhood. Isandor is an easy target to them, without glory or challenge.”
Brune pinched her lips, and the slight hint of irritation surprised Nevian. She rarely allowed emotion to show. “Two years is a long delay for an easy target. Let me guess: Master Avenazar found out he loved to rule his little kingdom and is taking his sweet time.”
“Yes. He plays with his prey. Once he grows bored or outraged, he’ll bludgeon his way through any resistance and make them pay for the insolence.”
“You are as insightful as ever, Nevian,” she said, then she stood up. “I’m afraid this is all the time I have today, however. I have important business to attend to.”
“What? You can’t!” Nevian’s stomach sank, and he jumped to his feet. “This isn’t the deal. I need help with a spell.”
“Not tonight, Nevian. Next time.”
Panic slid into him, a clawed hand clenching tight. Next time should be good enough, but what if she kept pushing back? What if she meant to drag information out of him yet no longer helped in exchange? She couldn’t! He needed these slivers of progress like a drowning man needed fresh air. He scrambled for his small sack, fumbled with the clasp closing it. His fingers slipped, but he managed to open it. Nevian rummaged inside until he found a neatly folded parchment. “Please … it’s just one spell.” He unfolded the notes, then handed them to Brune. “I can’t understand where I’m going wrong with this protection charm. It should ward against the elements.”
Brune sighed, snatched the notes, and scanned them. Her lips pursed, then she flattened his parchment on the table. “I’ll point out your mistake, and you can look deeper into it on your own. If it’s still a problem next time, we’ll fix it.”
“Please.”
“Basic protection spells can defend one of three elements: body, mind, or spirit. As with all things, they work in one of two ways: either by creating a shield, or by destroying the source of danger. So right here?” She tapped the beginning of the runes scribbled on his paper, underlining a particular set of three. “You failed to define what you wanted to protect. Pick one, you’re not powerful enough for more than that. Not to mention your runes on creation and destruction are a little off. These runes are your tools, Nevian. They let you craft magical energy into what you want. These are crude and blunt. Look all of that up, come back with a better version, and I’ll make time for practice.”
Nevian stared at the perfect cursive of his notes and the shapes of the runes. Now that she pointed out the one missing, it seemed obvious. He had browsed through so many different spells before trying to write this simple one that he had forgotten some of the most basic elements. The young wizard groaned, then picked up the paper and folded it back with extra care. Yet another revision. Would he ever get it right? Move from rune-casting to more flexible and powerful forms of magic? He had so much to learn, and so little time.
“Thank you.” He might need a lot of practice to cast this one, but he’d feel better if he could defend himself. Nevian stored the spell back in his sack before looking up at Brune. “If you have nothing planned during the winter solstice, the Myrian Enclave has an important ritual related to Keroth’s faith, and it would be easier for me to sneak out for an extended period of time.”
“Let’s do that.” Brune straightened up with a slight shrug. She didn’t seem to care, but Nevian suspected she had learned to hide what mattered and what didn’t a long time ago. Calculated disinterest made aiming for her weak points harder, and he admired the ease with which she maintained her mask. “Good luck on your return.”
Nevian nodded, though he believed in luck as much as he believed in Master Avenazar’s good will. Perhaps because his own was horrendous. What rare positive things had happened to him had always come from skill and hard work, and that wasn’t about to change.
Three days. Why was he still in this dank cell after three brutally long days? Hasryan had expected Brune’s steady footfalls at any point during the first twenty-four hours. She would never abandon him. They had started working together before his voice broke, when he had yet to make a true profession out of killing. She had seen his potential, found him mentors, helped him climb the ranks of her organization at the time, and offered him a place by her side when she’d left them behind to build the Crescent Moon in Isandor. Where would he be without Brune’s trust and support? Starving, hated, perhaps even dead.
Or in a cell like this one, maybe. Not that he would stay there. She would come. What were three tiresome days against a dozen years of collaboration?
In the meantime, he had for his sole company the ever-charming Sora Sharpe and her endless questions. At this rate, Hasryan suspected she enjoyed the little banter surrounding his answers. First she went on and on about Lady Allastam’s assassination and his dagger, and the dire consequences of her death for Isandor’s political life. As if he cared about the latter. Soon, however, she moved away from the one murder he didn’t commit to the many others he had accomplished for Brune. Judging by the bags under her eyes, she had spent entire nights digging through unsolved cases. Her dedication would be amusing if it didn’t put dangerous pressure on him. When had the city guards become so efficient? Hasryan dodged questions and did his best not to incriminate himself, but sooner or later, he would slip. Brune needed to intervene before the quick and relentless Sharpe pinned enough murders on his head to make it impossible.
But where was his boss? By now, the entire city knew Lady’s Allastam infamous assassin was a dark elf. She had to realize he’d be waiting for her, killing time by throwing a rock against the wall and annoying his fellow prisoners. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the importance of his supposed crime made it more complicated. He had to stay patient. To hold off until she extracted him from this mess. She counted on him.
His reward would be Sora Sharpe’s bitter grimace when Brune finally showed up.
The lock on his door clicked, and once again, the investigator opened it. Hasryan pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. It amused him to watch Sora’s irritation grow when her progress didn’t, but the endless interrogations took their toll and exhausted him, clouding his mind. Oh, how he wanted to crash into a seat in the Shelter, devouring Larryn’s incredible stew while junk instruments conjured impossible melodies. His stomach grumbled, then he caught a whiff of salty soup and discovered Sora held his meal. She brought the food now?
“Wow, they really do make you do the woman’s job,” he said. “Did you cook it too? Because if you’re trying to impress me, you picked the wrong thing. I have high standards where my nourishment is concerned.”
Anger darkened Sora’s expression. He could feel her temptation to fling the soup at him in the way she jerked the bowl, li
ps tight. His smile widened.
“New questions?” he continued. “Trying to coax answers with an extra meal?”
“It’s not extra.” She shoved the soup under his nose, and he accepted without hesitation. Prison food left him in a constant state of hunger, and she was right: they had skipped one service, if not more. A thin smile returned to Sora’s lips. “Brune came.”
“Did she?”
Hasryan’s heart leaped, but he kept his tone casual. Why was Sora smiling? This should be terrible news for her. The kind to infuriate or at least annoy her. Worry built at the bottom of his stomach, a knot tightening with every passing second. Hasryan forced his hand to remain steady as he brought the spoon to his lips. Never show fear to an enemy.
“When you’re done eating, we will all go hear what she has to say. Along with a judge.”
Hasryan stopped, the spoon in his mouth. Sora’s current smirk had grown familiar over the last few days. She was withholding information from him, laying out a trap. Hasryan took his time with this spoonful, using the delay to calm his nerves.
“You look happy to see me go,” he said. “I’m hurt.”
“Oh, but I am sad. Our daily back and forth has taught me all I ever needed.” The hint of sarcasm in her voice grew as she continued. “It’s so different from the kitchen—like there’s a whole new life for me! How had I never realized I could be doing a man's job? And so well, at that! Thank the gods you came along to enlighten me.”
Hasryan couldn’t suppress his laugh. Sora knew damn well she excelled at her work, and now she turned his jokes against him. One step ahead of him once more. “Cooking must have been terribly absorbing if you needed me to show you the way.”
She wouldn’t get anything closer to an admission of defeat than this. He met Sora’s gaze, bent his head a little as a form of reverence. She let out a small scoff.
“You should try something different,” Sora said. “Perhaps you’d have an epiphany about your life and drop assassinations.”
Hasryan’s mirth vanished. She couldn’t understand. Killing was as much a part of him as his quips or his wariness of strangers. It had always been a part of his life, from the moment he’d first defended himself. He wouldn’t apologize for something thrust upon him. They locked eyes for a long time, Hasryan’s grip tightening on his spoon. It had taken Sharpe one sentence to remind him of where he was. Where authorities were concerned—nobles and guards alike—he would never be more than a criminal. Hasryan lowered his eyes to the soup and returned to it. He missed Larryn and Cal more than ever now. They treated him like an actual person. They had welcomed him in, just like Brune, opening a space in their lives for him. He needed his friends.
Soon enough, he promised himself. Brune had come at last.
✵
Sora dragged him all the way through the guards’ headquarters and to the judge’s office, never letting go of his heavy shackles until they reached a cozy room with a wide window obscured by vines. A large painting covered the back wall, depicting Gresh as a slim and dark-skinned man, all sharp angles like jagged stone. This particular representation of the Earth Master was frequent along the Reonne River, where the deity had a strong following. In front of the painting stood a massive desk, dwarfing the scrawny old man slouching in the chair behind it. Bored. Used to the corrupt system snatching their targets before they could accuse them, probably. Perhaps actively benefitting from it. Hasryan didn’t care. He sought his boss out.
Brune leaned on the bookshelves to the right, her arms crossed, her squarish features set into a serious mask. She’d tied her brown hair in a ponytail and wore her usual amber robes, cinched by a wide maroon sash. Hasryan smirked and waved, but it brought no smile out of her. Not that Brune ever showed signs of amusement. She distributed her smiles like they were precious gems, only offering them in meaningful instances. In that regard, she was Hasryan’s exact opposite. He found reasons to grin even when there were none, in defiance of the never-ending hardships and the world beating down on him. Maybe if he smiled enough, the happiness he projected would stop being a lie and coalesce into his truth. Brune stared at him in silence until Sora Sharpe closed the door behind them.
“Let’s make this quick,” Sora said. “I want him to hear it.”
Hear what? He knew what Brune would say. She’d clear his name and confirm his story. What else could she do? But why had Sharpe smiled, and what was this constant tug at his stomach, warning him, pleading for him to listen to the terrifying hunch hovering at the edge of his mind? Hasryan shoved it away, crushing it under the unwavering certitude that Brune would never betray him. She was the first person who had trusted him, and he trusted her in return.
Everything would be okay.
Brune’s gaze flickered to him, then back at Sharpe. The corner of her mouth quirked into an irritated grimace. “Then ask your questions again. I don’t have all day.”
Neither did he. He was dying to return to the Shelter, sit down with a good pint of ale, and lose more money to Cal’s ridiculous luck. Or even better, to devour Larryn’s latest meal and wash out the taste of prison soup with the best cooking in the whole city. He wanted to hear his friends laugh as they recalled Drake’s stunned indignation, his little cry of pain, and the way he’d held his broken nose. Soon, he could relax, the constant throb from his bruises ebbing away as Cal tended to the worst of his injuries. Hasryan settled against the wall opposite Brune’s, ready for her sweet words. Sharpe stepped forward, a hand on her thigh. Business-like. She looked straight at Brune as she began.
“Hasryan Fel’ethier is your employee, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“When we arrested him, he had a special dagger in his possession.” Sora withdrew his weapon and set it on the desk in front of the judge. The old man frowned and glared at Hasryan. “He says this weapon was a gift from you. Is that also correct?”
“Yes.”
Brune’s exasperated tone indicated she’d had enough of this charade. She’d always disliked repeating anything, especially due to long procedures. He would have to thank her for enduring the process. Perhaps he could find some of those caramel candies she craved and fuel her secret addiction.
“All right. One last question,” Sharpe continued. “When did you give this dagger to Hasryan? Be specific.”
Hasryan’s smile widened and he crossed his arms as much as the shackles allowed. Brune’s chocolate eyes stopped on him and for the first time in forever, her lips did curl up. Ever so slightly. His heart warmed; the knot in his stomach loosened. She was happy to settle this matter and get him out.
“Two days before Lady Allastam was killed.”
Brune held his gaze, and Hasryan’s heart stopped, his confident smirk frozen. Before? His ears rang, and his thoughts scattered like a thousand birds after a loud bang. What did she mean, before? After. She’d given it after. That’s what she had meant to say. She must have gotten the dates wrong, misunderstood the question. He wanted to correct her, remind her how the dagger was a reward, how he’d framed Freitz for that murder, not committed it. It was his very first job in Isandor. Hasryan would never forget the pride swelling in his stomach as he beheld the waved blade, a symbol of their partnership, of her believing in him. His lips parted, a desperate protest forming in his mind. The words didn’t make it past the lump in his throat.
She knew all that.
Brune didn’t make mistakes.
Brune never smiled either, unless a long-standing plan came to fruition.
Sharpe had her repeat the information, then they discussed his other activities. Brune confirmed several of his crimes—assassination contracts he’d taken on her behalf. Without claiming responsibility or mentioning his affiliation to the Crescent Moon. He had finished those jobs for her sake. Except she didn’t protect him. She sold him out.
This wasn’t how the city worked. Employers took the blame, not executioners. Coherent sentences crumbled under the shock, words stumbling out of his bl
ank mind, never crossing his lips. A dull throb covered the discussion, and he looked at Brune without seeing her.
Twelve years together, partners in crime. Yet she dropped him like a stinky sock. The perfect scapegoat. Had he ever been more? She had given him that dagger at their arrival in Isandor. Always carry it, even if hidden, she had said. One day, having it with you will be a matter of life and death. Had she planned it all along? Seen nothing but how easy it would be to deflect blame for heinous crimes on an assassin of dark elven blood? He shouldn’t be surprised. What else would anyone ever see in him? He had walked into that one with a confident smile, glad to have found someone he could trust after years of struggle. In his mind, Brune sought a skilled and ruthless partner, without care for his race. They had built the Crescent Moons’ influence in Isandor with careful planning and execution.
Or rather … she had built it with the help of a perfect, naive, and willing tool.
He should have known. Why would she be any different? Everyone attacked him on sight, fled, or exploited him. No big deal. He was used to it … right? Then why did he no longer feel the floor under his feet or the wall against his back? Why did a thousand needles poke at his heart all at once, leaving it a dysfunctional, bleeding mess? He was shaking, out of focus, throbbing in shocked pain. Hasryan closed his eyes, trying to wrestle himself back under control.
Sharpe put a hand on his arm, and he jumped. Brune was gone. When had that happened? Had he lost track? Hasryan forced a long breath in, then exhaled. He shouldn’t space out like this, not if he wanted to survive. He was on his own again.
“Do you have anything to add?” she asked.
The judge was staring at him, unimpressed. Hasryan clenched his teeth together and pulled away from Sharpe.
“What’s the point? Just convict me already.”
“Lady Allastam’s death anniversary is in five days,” the judge said. “You will be hung over Carrington’s Square then.”
City of Strife Page 16
