Of course. A short drop from the infamous archway, above the statue of the city’s. A great show for the good people of Isandor. Hasryan turned his head away and allowed Sharpe to lead him out. She seemed distant, like when she went over clues and evidence in her mind during interrogations. He remained silent, determined not to give her any more satisfaction. That’s what she’d been so smug about. Brune had never intended to save him, and she had known.
When she pushed him back in his cell, she finally spoke up. “You really did expect her to lie for you.”
Hasryan’s hands curled into a fist. He’d trusted Brune with his life. What a mistake. How often had he been betrayed before? Did he never learn? All she’d had to do was confirm the guards’ suspicions. Who would doubt the dark elf’s guilt? “I expected her to tell the truth.”
“Your truth.”
Hasryan bit back his reply. No point in arguing, not when it was his word against Brune’s, his empty hands against her full pockets. How he wished he had the chance to escape, find her, and ram that poisoned gift through her back! With that small pleasure before his execution, he would die happy. Happier. He’d have a meagre satisfaction to alleviate the empty burn inside, at any rate.
“I’m still not allowed visitors, I guess?”
He had to remember he still had Larryn and Cal. They were still his friends. The kind you fought with. The kind who didn’t base a ten-year relationship on a plan to have you take the fall for one of the city’s most famous crimes.
“Afraid not,” said Sharpe. “You’ll be allowed to write them letters on the last day.”
Hasryan suppressed a bitter chuckle. Lots of good that would do Larryn. No one had ever taught the half-elf to read. But, well, Cal could always do it for him. He would have to tell them the truth, at least. He hoped they’d still like him once they knew what his job was. Hard to believe in it now.
“Better than nothing, I guess,” he said. “Now why don’t you leave? Go celebrate.”
“I don’t celebrate another death.”
She seemed about to add more, then shrugged and left. As her footsteps echoed down the corridor, Hasryan wondered how many would, in fact, do exactly that. He had made many enemies through the years, most often by refusing to bend his knees to them and take their abuse. True to form, he longed to prepare one last retort for them, one last reason to hate him and celebrate his execution.
The wax formed a solidified pool around Nevian’s candles. Their light flickered, almost dead, but he didn’t want to waste time finding new ones. He focused on the spell at the tip of his fingers and attempted to deconstruct it into smaller elements. Brune’s clues had helped fix one major issue, but digging deeper into protective spells had brought more questions and almost no answers. What part of these arcane words stood for the range? How did one manipulate the web of magic to conjure a shield of force? Which of the creation runes was he supposed to use, and why? These runes were the key to magic—tools to channel power—but Nevian had no models to help him built his. Protection spells had never been Master Avenazar’s favourites, and the enclave’s library lacked tomes covering the basics. Nevian had dug through several books and found a dozen spells he might want to learn. He tried to make a chart out of them, to see what they had in common, and where the differences were. If he could identify every rune’s role … The work demanded tremendous concentration, however, and induced a constant headache. Without High Priest Daramond’s magical bandanna, he’d have collapsed long ago.
Nevian reached for his arm, touching the rekhemal under his robes. Snatched his hand back right away. No one could know. The High Priest had risked too much in helping him, and now Nevian regretted the responsibility. He would have returned the bandanna, but every time he considered seeking High Priest Daramond, he remembered the mind-numbing exhaustion of late-night studying. How often had he collapsed in his books, unable to continue the endless deciphering of runes and spells? Every time he slipped the artifact around his forearm, Nevian’s mind lit up. His surroundings came into sharp contrast—he could see farther, hear the tiniest scuffle, bask in the old book smell around him—and the fatigue that turned crisp runes into foreign scrawls vanished. He accomplished twice as much in a day as he had before. The constant progress made the risk worthwhile.
Nevian cast a glance around the library. No one spying on him in the darkness, not that he could tell. Everything was fine. For now. Sometimes, he wondered if the Isbari priest had known how useful his gift would be. He had seemed to act on a hunch, drawing his conclusion from keen observation, but it was difficult for Nevian not to distrust Varden. He’d been watching, that much was certain, and his willingness to help Nevian might have a limit. Who would risk Avenazar’s wrath, after all?
With a sigh, Nevian returned to his spells. Better not to worry about that. He’d need to bring back the rekhemal for the Long Night’s Watch. He ought to make the most of it before Master Avenazar filled his schedule with petty tasks to frustrate him. He had half an hour before the candles gave out, and he intended to make the best of it.
Nevian dipped his quill in ink and started writing, linking spells through their similarities while scratching off possible connections between others. The back-and-forth of his quill quickened, brush-like, as a pattern began to emerge. His heart sped, his fingers tingled, and he bent over the table. Every new note brought him closer to an understanding of these spells, to practise and mastery. Closer to becoming a true wizard. His throat tightened, and he couldn’t keep the smile from his lips. All the spells protecting from physical harm, whether through a force field or by dispelling elemental magic, had a single rune in common. It had to be the body rune. Nevian fumbled for the draft he’d shown Brune. If he added the rune at the start …
The light vanished, his last candle dead. He slammed his quill on the table.
“No! Curse it.”
A brownish glow flickered at the library’s entrance in the form of a tiny ball of luminous energy. It hovered above Isra’s hand as she strode to his side, a slight skip to her steps. Nevian stared in silence, teeth ground together. What did she want this time? Hadn’t she caused enough damage already? Isra brought her fingers near the candles and blew on the light, and the small globe stayed above them when she withdrew her hand.
“You ought to learn this spell if you intend to spend entire nights studying.”
“Then give me its script and leave.”
Isra pouted and instead took a nearby chair, flipped it, and sat down, wrapping her arms around the back. Nevian withheld a sigh. He wanted her to disappear, not get comfortable.
“Can’t leave you in the dark, can I? Besides, I wanna know what you were doing. It looked so intense.”
“I’m working. Studying.” Nevian glanced at his almost-complete set of notes. He’d been so close to rewriting his protection spell. “You interrupted.”
“I didn’t. Your light source dying did.”
True. Whether Isra had arrived or not, he would have been forced to seek out new candles. Nevian put the cork back on his ink bottle. He could finish in his room.
“So you’re done now?” She settled her chin in her hands. He couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or not.
“No,” he said, “but I’ll finish later. Elsewhere. Alone.”
“Leaving because of me? You shouldn’t!” Isra’s lips stretched into a large smile. “I’ll be silent, I promise.”
Nevian blew on his notes to dry the ink, then folded them. He was careful not to crease the delicate paper at the wrong places. He wanted to be able to reread them. Isra watched his every movement, as if studying him. Nevian wondered how much she would repeat to Jilssan. “Leave me alone, Isra.”
“Why?”
Nevian gritted his teeth and caught her gaze. She had that silly smile, like she had no idea why he would want her gone. He breathed in slowly and gathered his ink bottle and quill with trembling hands.
“All you ever bring is trouble, and I don’t have th
e time or inclination for it. I’m done. You cleaned that floor on my behalf, without my permission, then ran instead of taking the blame as promised. I could have died. This is over. You play your games with someone else. I refuse to waste my precious free time talking to you.”
He lifted a heavy tome on protection spells, set his notes on top, and prepared to depart. Isra jumped to her feet and grabbed his forearm, stopping him.
“Nevian, I—”
Her fingers burned through his sleeve.
“Don’t touch me!”
His breath quickened, and a jolt ran up his arm, straight to his mind. It wasn’t real—he knew it wasn’t—but he almost dropped everything. Nevian grunted and stepped back. He could hear Avenazar’s cackle, foreshadowing intense pain. Isra let go with a gasp and withdrew. Her light globe flew to her head and hovered there as Nevian continued to stumble back.
He hit a bookshelf and stopped, breathless, his chest tight. It felt like a dozen bugs were scurrying out of it and up his arm. He wished people would quit touching his forearm, or that he had some self-control. The throb in his arm wouldn’t vanish anytime soon, now. No more than the scratching discomfort at the back of his mind, an alarm bell constantly ringing, waiting for the worst. Nevian hoped Isra would go away without another word. That, too, was asking too much.
“I’m sorry, Nev,” Isra said. “I didn’t mean to … Maybe I can make it up to you?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I said no!”
As if repeating a refusal had ever kept Isra from doing anything. Her disappointed pout turned into an insulted frown.
“Fine! Be like that. I thought you’d enjoy telling Master Avenazar that there’s a traitor in our ranks. Maybe he’d like you more after.”
“A what?”
His anger drained away, and Nevian stared at her, his head empty. Dazed. A traitor. His legs threatened to give out under him. Her showing up now couldn’t be a coincidence, not after his recent outing to Isandor. How did she know? His throbbing arm had grown numb, but the alarm bell seemed stronger than ever.
“You heard, you stubborn fool,” Isra said. “A traitor. That Isbari cleric.”
“High Priest Varden?”
Nevian’s voice stuttered, weaker than he’d have liked. It didn’t make sense. Why would he do such a risky thing? He had what he needed here. Varden wasn’t the one selling information in exchange for magic lessons.
Isra beamed at him, proud of his sudden interest. Once again, she’d laid a perfect trap to force her topic into the conversation. “Who else?”
Isra leaned forward and fell silent, as if expecting a string of questions. Nevian devoted his energy to keeping a neutral mask instead of either collapsing to the ground with a whimper or running away. This conversation couldn’t lead anywhere safe for him.
Faced with a definite lack of enthusiasm from him, Isra apparently decided to fill in the blanks. “Last night, I flew over the courtyard, coming back from the city. You know what I saw? A man, cloaked, climbing the big oak to get over the enclave’s wall! He had his hood on, but it had to be him.”
It wasn’t. Nevian had almost fallen off that very tree the previous night, trying to get to Brune. Could Isra really have mixed him up with Varden? The High Priest’s pale brown skin couldn’t be confused with Nevian’s pasty white. He had more muscles and was two inches shorter than Nevian. Not to mention Varden’s hair was brown and curled, while he had a flat blond mess on his head. How did you confuse the lanky teenager with the broad-shouldered Isbari? In the dim moonlight and with his hood, however, she might not have seen the differences—especially if she had expected to see Varden.
“Why would he do that?”
Nevian regretted asking. He shouldn’t question what she had imagined. If no one figured out he was the traitor, he would stay safe. As safe as this enclave could be, at any rate.
“Oh, silly Nevian. He’s Isbari. He can’t be trusted.” She lifted herself onto the table and dangled her legs. The light floated above her head, slowly spinning around. “If you visited the city every once in a while, you would hear all the tales about him.”
He did visit Isandor, in secret. Officially, however, Master Avenazar had forbidden him to go to Isandor unless under his direct orders. His forced trip with Isra had put him through hours of torture, and yet here she was, suggesting he should take a stroll on the city’s bridges to listen to gossip more often. Like there would be no consequences to that. It took a moment for Nevian to get an answer past his stunned disbelief.
“I don’t care.”
“They say flames whisked in and out of existence with every step as he exited the tailor’s shop.” Her voice fell into a hushed whisper, and she punctuated her description with twirls of her hands. “His face and hair were covered with soot, and smoke swirled around him in a cloak of darkness that couldn’t conceal his evil gaze.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. High Priest Daramond was raised among Myrians. He’s not a pyromaniac, and I don’t think he’s a traitor either.”
He tried to push past her, but she slid off the table and set her hands on her thighs. “You don’t know him. I’ve watched him manipulate fire, and he gets that gleam in his eyes, like he’s possessed or something. The thing about Isbari is, they’re predators. It doesn’t matter where and how they’re raised; it’s always there, waiting. Maybe the flames call to his inner instincts.”
Nevian almost choked. Straight out of the Myrian’s Handbook to Racism. He’d had enough encounters with Varden to believe the High Priest might be the gentlest soul stuck in this damned enclave. No point in arguing this with Isra, though. She lived in a world of her own, romanticized to include a fire-happy Isbari traitor and a girl’s heroic discovery of his heinous acts. Some days, she behaved like she was still twelve and the universe belonged to her. A powerful father and the notable absence of a sadistic and controlling mentor might have contributed a lot to her illusions. One thing was certain, however: Nevian wanted no part in her game.
“You enjoy the retelling of your discovery to Master Avenazar. I don’t want to be involved.”
Her smile turned once more into a disappointed pout. What did she expect? He didn’t have time to waste on convoluted storylines meant to satisfy her sense of drama and self-importance. And he didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when Avenazar discovered Varden had nothing to do with this mess, and Isra had no idea who did. As she began to protest, he pushed her aside and plunged into the darkened library. He needed no light to find the door and left without another word. When he heard Isra’s footsteps behind him, Nevian sped up. She exited the library as he reached the nearby corner.
“You’re no fun!” she called.
Nevian couldn’t help but smile, glad she’d learned that much about him tonight.
Every fibre of Larryn’s being hated what he was about to do.
He had climbed all the way to the Middle City, almost turning back with every step, and now waited on a thin bridge stuck between two large towers. Far above, lush plants hung from a balcony and cast a green glow on the marble beneath his feet. Dark smudges marred the grey stone—years of unwashed grime, protected from most of the rain by the two giant towers on each side of this high, suspended alley. The dirt’s brown and plants’ green mixed into a sickly hue, like the bridge itself wanted to puke on those below. Larryn watched a thin rivulet crawl across the stone at his feet, focusing all his anger and unease on the water slowly making its way for the bridge’s edge. It would fall into the Lower City, carrying this bridge’s filth with it. Nothing new there. Gold moved up and shit moved down. Such was Isandor’s way. Yet the slums were Larryn’s favourite part of the city. They stank, but they were his home, and they housed his people. If this were only about him, he would never leave the Lower City. Especially not to talk to a noble.
Especially not to plead for his father’s help.
Three years had passed since Yultes Dathirii had first sought him out, eage
r to alleviate his guilt with money, but when the elven noble appeared at the alley’s entrance, Larryn’s urge to smash his knuckles into his father’s thin nose came back in full force. He couldn’t help it. He and Yultes looked too much alike—same high cheekbones, same eyebrows, same frown. The obvious resemblance struck bitter anger in his throat. Anyone walking by would assume Yultes was his father—as if blood ties de facto earned him that position. As if Yultes hadn’t abandoned him long before his birth, throwing Larryn’s mother to the streets. Heat flushed his cheeks, and he pushed himself off the wall, straightening up. No matter how much Yultes tried, he would never be his father. He would always remain a hated relative with enough remorse to offer unwanted but necessary help.
Yultes stopped a few steps away from Larryn. He had learned to keep his distance. “You look … better. Healthier.”
“Eating helps. Give people enough money and they won't look so famished anymore. A true miracle.”
Not the entire story, but Larryn had no intention to share the grief that had kept him awake and unable to eat when they had first met. Yultes had landed in his life right after his real father had been stabbed. The worst trade possible. It still hurt to think Jim would never see the Shelter, never hear its music or taste its food, never know how much he’d meant to Larryn and how they honoured his passing every year. Larryn tried to pull his thoughts out of the dark pattern and to the business at hand. Yultes always brought these memories back, striking his grief raw again.
Yultes scowled at his acidic tone. His voice turned thin and tense. “I’m glad to learn my gold is put to good use.”
“It’s not yours, it’s mine.” Larryn crossed his arms. “The deal is that I can do whatever I want with it.”
“Yes.”
Larryn remembered that first and last conversation with great clarity. The moment was burned into his mind, the last of trying events. It had taken every shred of his willpower not to kill Yultes on the spot. Too much to gain. Even through the rage and grief, he had seen that. Larryn had allowed him to fund the Shelter for everyone else’s sake. He had let Yultes bribe the guards and mark him as untouchable, even from Drake and noble shitstains like him, to be certain he would always be there to cook. Larryn had thought that would be the end of it and had sworn never to speak with the hypocrite again.
City of Strife Page 17
