City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Yet here they were, and Larryn had called this meeting. Just looking at Yultes sickened him. His heart hammered against his chest, his stomach shifted about in a strange, nauseating dance, and his head hurt from a dull throb. This man had killed his mother, as surely as Drake had killed Jim. He had almost killed Larryn, too—all because a half-breed child wasn’t good enough for him. Larryn reined in his urges to hit or spit on him again. Hasryan needed him to stay calm.

  “I need your help.”

  Every word had to be torn from Larryn, and ‘help’ came out in a resentful whisper. Saying them was like a punch to his gut, and when Yultes leaned forward to examine him, Larryn’s gaze fled to the ground. He clenched his jaw so hard it pained him, angry that life had brought him here, ashamed to hurt so much. He shouldn’t care. He knew he was better than this asshole, knew he owed him nothing. But it felt like begging, and Yultes was the last person in the universe he wanted to beg to.

  “Anything, Larryn. Please. You only need to ask.”

  Larryn’s head shot up at the barely-restrained enthusiasm in Yultes’ tone, and his shame washed away. What was Yultes thinking now? That Larryn had forgiven him? Forgotten how he’d almost never had a mother because of him, how he’d grown frail, easily sick, bones breaking at the slightest hit? It didn’t matter how much Yultes said he wanted to help. Larryn wanted none of it. He was several years too late to play the good father with him. Larryn stepped forward and grabbed Yultes by his way-too-clean lapels.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, asshole,” he said. “This is a one-time demand, and only because I can’t let a friend die because I hate your face. You’re his best chance.”

  Yultes pinched his lips, flushing red. After a few seconds, he put his hand on Larryn’s forearm. Larryn hoped the filth in his clothes would dirty Yultes’ manicured fingers. “Just ask.”

  “Hasryan head-butted Drake’s nose and ruined it. It earned him a stay in prison. They beat him up—I know they did—and now that inspector lady wants to frame him with all their unsolved murders. Get him out.”

  Colour drained from Yultes’s cheeks as Larryn explained, his eyes widening in horror. He stumbled back, licking his lips. Larryn’s stomach clenched as his useless father started shaking his head.

  “You were with Lady Allastam’s assassin when they arrested him?”

  “He’s not an assassin!” Larryn stepped forward and glared at Yultes. The noble drew back. “Listen well, you piece of shit, because I’m about to tell you how they get their culprit. They take an unlucky bloke from the street—anyone who made the mistake of defending himself or trying to live his piss-poor life—they put him in shackles, and they work up a case after. They don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s true or not. We’re all criminals, and to you people we’re all expendable.”

  “His boss—”

  “Is a lying hag,” Larryn finished. “All I want is for you to wave your cute little title around, make a few threats, grease some palms, and get him out.”

  “I can’t, Larryn. I wish I could, but I can’t!” This time when Larryn advanced on him, Yultes didn’t back down. “You’re safe because you’re a nobody. Only two nobles care about what happens to you in this city—Lord Drake Allastam and myself. The guards have no love for Lord Drake Allastam, and some strange fascination with your … notable escape method. They think it’s funny, how you break bones to get out of shackles. And now they know the Bonebreaker is under a Dathirii’s protection, and that’s enough for them. But your friend Hasryan is in over his head. The entire city has its eyes on him. He’s not going anywhere, and I’m not burning my good graces and the Dathirii’s reputation by trying.”

  Of course not. Yultes was happy to help when it didn’t affect his position, but the very moment his precious title might be scratched, he bailed out. Larryn didn’t know why he’d even asked. Yultes’ aid had never been more than charity meant to make his pathetic conscience feel better. He didn’t care about Larryn himself. With a scowl, Larryn met his father’s eyes.

  “I should’ve known. Forget I asked.”

  Larryn whirled around before Yultes could answer. The elven lord started protesting behind him, stammering excuses and apologies. Larryn raised a dismissive hand, never looking back.

  “I still expect my money next week!”

  Yultes would never be good for anything else. Larryn hurried away, angry he’d wasted so much time and energy. Fury burned his reserves, and tears threatened to resurface. Larryn kicked at a rock with a cry of rage, venting the pent-up emotion, but his mind was slipping into the past. Jim’s hearty laugh echoed in his head, his never-ending optimism, his resilience. Jim never gave up. He’d spent his entire life trying to save others, only to have it brutally shortened by Drake. Larryn’s fingers clenched and unclenched—they needed to hold a spoon or a knife. Any kind of cooking tool, really. And with a dozen onions sliced under his blade, perhaps memories of Jim and the vague memory of his mom would finally pass, giving his mind enough room to come up with a new plan to save Hasryan.

  Despite his best intentions, Nevian couldn’t study after Isra’s visit. He sat at his desk, staring blankly at his notes while her story ran through his head. How could he have been so careless? A tall man climbing the oak tree? With a little more light, she would never have mistaken him for Varden. His secret would be out, and he’d be dead. Or worse. Nevian’s nighttime expeditions now seemed downright suicidal. But what else was he supposed to do? Stay trapped in the enclave at the mercy of Master Avenazar’s whims, unable to progress with his magic? Nevian could endure a lot of abuse when he put his mind to it. He needed to know when it would end, however. To have a goal. He had no choice, not if he wanted his life to get anywhere, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how close he had come to being discovered.

  Luck had redirected the blame on Varden. Pure luck—a luxury he couldn’t rely on. It never lasted. Nevian shuddered to imagine what might happen to him once it gave out. Varden’s very fate, soon. For him it would be brief, at least. Long enough to figure out Isra’s accusations were baseless, that he’d done nothing wrong. Then Master Avenazar would turn his attention to Isra. Perhaps his retribution for the time wasted would grant Nevian a few hours of peace to study more, free of his master’s constant ridiculous demands.

  Nevian frowned and reached for the bandanna tied around his forearm. He hated that it had to be Varden first. Who would heal the priest once Avenazar trampled through his memories and turned him into a wretched ball of pain? Wasn’t right to let him take the fall, however briefly. Avenazar would have too much fun. Nevian should warn him as a thank you for the rekhemal. It’d give him a chance to flee.

  Except he couldn’t do that.

  No one escaped Master Avenazar. Sauria had tried. She’d run halfway across Myria, Nevian in tow, before Avenazar found her. Nevian had heard every inn they’d stayed at during their flight had been razed to the ground. After witnessing the destruction Avenazar had left at her last hideout, Nevian had no trouble believing the stories. Once the wizard set his sights on someone, there was no escape. Nevian was already trapped with him by virtue of being Sauria’s old apprentice, and Varden would be no different. Avenazar would find him, and once he had his hands on him, he would rip through his memories and discover Nevian’s warning. If he tried to help Varden, he would condemn himself. He couldn’t save the priest. Nevian’s best option was to sever all ties with Varden. He had to think of himself first.

  The next morning, Nevian found his way to the High Priest’s door. He knocked twice to warn of his presence, then turned the knob. He needed to be fast, before guilt overrode his good sense. Tell Varden, the burning shame in his stomach said. You owe him. But he had never asked for Varden’s help. Nevian refused to get himself killed because the priest was nice to him once. He had to go in, return the rekhemal, and leave. Nothing else.

  As he pushed open the door, he heard swearing and scrambling. A foot blocked the movement from the other side.

&
nbsp; “A moment, please!”

  Panic seeped into Varden’s voice. Nevian frowned and stopped pushing.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Nevian?” Behind the priest’s nervousness was a hint of relief. “You can’t come in, not yet. I’m sorry, I’m … naked.”

  Nevian jumped back as if the door had burned him. Why was the High Priest naked in the middle of the day? Then he heard a woman’s stifled giggles, and Varden hushed her. The door snapped shut and they shuffled inside. Nevian would never understand that kind of desire—he had never even experienced attraction and doubted he one day would—and physical proximity unnerved him. He waited, wishing people were more reasonable about this whole sex thing. Because, really? The middle of the day?

  After a minute or two, Varden reopened the door. He wore black pants and was buttoning up the front of his dark orange shirt. His official robes had been thrown on his desk’s chair, in disarray, and the curly hair seemed more a mess than usual.

  “I didn’t expect you.” His cold tone indicated he didn’t want him either and left a strange taste in Nevian’s mouth. Varden had never made him feel unwelcome, building in his person one of the rare sources of safety in the enclave. The subtle rejection hurt more than it should have. When had Nevian grown attached? This was bad, very bad. Good thing the priest had decided to play in the middle of a work day, then. His irritation at being interrupted reminded Nevian of what their relationship truly was, and had to be. In Avenazar’s enclave, no one had room for tentative friendships. Nevian gritted his teeth and prepared to underscore the ridicule of Varden’s annoyance considering the moment of the day, but the High Priest cut him short. “Be quick.”

  The apprentice bit back his previous comment on timely recreational activities. He was supposed to get in, give Varden the rekhemal, and get out. Not lecture him. “Tomorrow is the Long Night’s Watch,” he said. “You should have this back.”

  Nevian lifted the bandanna but couldn’t meet Varden’s gaze. What a pointless gesture. What if Avenazar went overboard and Varden was dead within a week? Perhaps Nevian should keep the artifact and continue using it. It had done such amazing things for his productivity! But Varden had said it bordered on heresy. Best not to give Avenazar another excuse to attack either of them.

  “Thank you, Nevian.” A smile brightened Varden’s face as he retrieved the bandanna, all of the usual warmth flooding back into his tone. Had the cold treatment been a fluke? Could he still count on Varden? Yearning tugged at Nevian, but he hushed it. Things would get bad now. He needed to stay away. Varden folded the rekhemal with great care. “Will you want it again?” he asked.

  If only. Nevian tried to hide his desire. If he could, Nevian would wear the rekhemal every day, every hour. Only Varden’s warning about sleep had stopped him. As desperate as he was to progress, Nevian knew better than to disregard instructions.

  “No.” When he saw Varden’s eyebrows shoot up, Nevian struggled to find a good justification. He didn’t want to appear suspicious. Just in case Avenazar searched through Varden’s memories, noticed anomalies, and wondered if Nevian had known beforehand. And even though the apprentice wasn’t warning Varden, Avenazar might resent him. Better not to take the slightest chance with him. He needed a credible excuse. “I rely on it too much. It won’t always be there.”

  “True, but—”

  “I’ll manage,” Nevian interrupted. “I don’t need your help.”

  Varden flinched, and the reaction twisted Nevian’s stomach. People were always trying to use him or destroy him, yet Varden had been nothing but helpful. Friendly, even. The apprentice could give it back, allow Varden closer. Right now, with just a few words, he could tell him to flee. Help. Nevian closed his eyes. He focused on the terrible punishment that would follow, and the dull throb it brought to his arm kept him silent.

  “Sometimes, Nevian, it shouldn’t be about what you need.” Varden lowered his gaze and ran his finger over the bandanna’s soft fabric. “If you change your mind …”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

  Nevian realized he was apologizing for much more than refusing the rekhemal. He forced himself to look straight at the man he was about to sacrifice for his own safety. Nevian’s mouth went dry, and Isra’s story almost crossed his lips. Then Varden sighed and leaned against the doorway.

  “If you say so,” he replied with a slight smile. “Good luck, Nevian. We’ll see each other when Master Avenazar again decides to vent his anger on a helpless target.”

  Nevian’s stomach churned. Varden was the next helpless target. Isra had it all wrong. The High Priest was no savage. His smiles hid concern for Nevian’s safety, and his jabs at Avenazar reeked of ill-concealed outrage. But if Nevian didn’t correct Isra’s racist mistake, was he any better? Letting Varden take the fall was a cruel decision made by a terrible human being. Nevian gritted his teeth. He needed the respite. A pause in his painful life. If that made him a horrible person, so be it. His arm burned at the very thought of getting involved. This couldn’t be tracked to him, not if he wanted to live. Every extra hour he was spared from Avenazar’s wrath would allow him to learn new spells and become a full-fledged wizard.

  “One day, I won’t be helpless anymore.”

  He let the promise hang in the hair and spun on his heels, hurrying down the corridor. Bullets of sweat ran down his forehead and neck. He could feel Avenazar’s hand on his forearm, the imaginary pain coursing up. A scream swirled at the bottom of his lungs and wound its way up, only to get stuck in his throat and choke him. Nevian broke into a sprint as he emerged from the temple and onto the enclave’s ground. His vision blackened at the corners as he fought for control over his wheezing. The imaginary pain had crawled all the way up to his shoulder and neck, reminding him of a very simple fact: nothing was worth facing Master Avenazar. Varden would have to fend for himself.

  ✵

  Varden stared at the door as it closed behind Nevian, the soft rekhemal in his hands. He’d expected Nevian to take it back after the Long Night’s Watch. Varden had seen the change in the young apprentice through the last week. It was subtle, but Nevian had grown more alert and healthy, prompter to complete Avenazar’s tasks and vanish. More determined to see things through. There had been a new spark in him—one gone from the scared and distrustful teenager who had just left his quarters.

  “Was that his apprentice?” Branwen asked. “The one he attacked in front of Uncle Diel?”

  “Yes.”

  Varden set the bandanna atop his desk, then slipped back into his official attire. He tried to flatten his hair into a more respectable appearance and destroy the quick disguise he’d created to explain Branwen’s presence if needed. One day, I won’t be helpless. He wondered how long it would take Nevian to escape, and whether Varden would ever have that chance. Nevian might learn to defend himself and become a full-fledged wizard, protected from Avenazar’s wrath by fellow Myrian mages, but as long as Varden lived among Myrians, he would need to watch his words. No magic could make the power imbalance between Isbari and Myrians vanish. Sometimes, he daydreamed of fleeing Myria entirely, but guilt locked him down. He had managed to carve a space for himself in Keroth’s church and help so many other Isbari. Varden couldn’t resolve himself to abandon them. He had to hope he would eventually move somewhere safer than around Avenazar.

  “We’ll trounce him,” Branwen said, as if she’d been following his train of thought. “My uncle is the best, you’ll see. He’ll find a way to crush Avenazar and send this whole enclave running!”

  Varden answered with a bitter smile. Branwen’s absolute conviction in the Dathirii’s success warmed his heart, but it was naive and pointless. Master Avenazar wouldn’t pack up and leave. If things became bad enough, even a direct order from Myria wouldn’t keep him from inflicting his wrath upon the Dathirii.

  “Lord Dathirii made a mistake. Skilled politician or not, this is too much for him. He should have stayed out.”

  Branwen
jumped to her feet, her wide grin transforming into a serious grimace. The sudden shifts in her moods always took Varden unaware. One minute she was a cheerful companion, the next a ruthless professional. He wondered if she did it on purpose, to keep others on their toes. Or maybe she didn’t even notice.

  “You don’t know him,” she said. “Uncle couldn’t have stayed out. This enclave has bothered him from the very first day you arrived. It’s a surprise it took two years before he acted, really, but that’s good. I gathered a lot of information on you guys, and Garith had an almost complete financial portrait. Everyone except Uncle Diel himself knew this was coming. Sooner or later, we’d have had this conflict. We’re ready.”

  She leaned past Varden and pulled a blank parchment out of his pile, then handed him the cooled charcoal he used to sketch. Branwen was so close her hair tickled his skin, but he didn’t say a word about the sudden proximity. He’d learned quickly that she had little concept of personal space.

  “You’re helping me,” Branwen said, “so you don’t believe this is hopeless. Don’t be a defeatist and draw me a map of the enclave.”

  “A map?”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, right? We’ve covered a lot of things together, but a map will be precious information if I need to infiltrate again. Be precise.”

  A small laugh escaped Varden, and he picked up the charcoal. It seemed they were back to her badgering him for every tidbit of knowledge about Myria and the enclave. Once Branwen had accepted she wouldn’t leave the enclave before the winter solstice, she had decided to make the most of her time. Every evening, when Varden returned and closed the door behind him, she assaulted him with an endless string of questions. He suspected she spent her days thinking of a list then waited to ambush him. The interrogation carried late into the night—her sitting cross-legged on the couch, him lying in his bed. Sometimes he’d try to cut it short. “Can I sleep?” he’d ask, but Branwen would laugh and reply, “I’m not done yet.”