Varden answered everything he could. Why not? Lord Dathirii was his best chance to get rid of Avenazar, no matter how little Varden believed in it. He’d already crossed so far into traitor territory he doubted this information would worsen his fate.
Last night, the tone of her questions had changed. Varden had tried to coax Branwen into silence or toward other topics with a bottle of wine. Not the best idea. At first, it had worked. They had drunk most of the night, occupying their usual seats, their posture getting more and more relaxed as the level of wine in the bottle lowered. Branwen talked about what it was like to grow up with the Dathirii family. Her parents had vanished before she could commit them to memory, and Diel Dathirii had done his best to be an adequate substitute despite his other duties.
“He didn’t really have the time, so he let me braid his hair while he worked and did mine on occasions,” she’d said. “But there were the others, too. I spent entire days playing tricks on Vellien with Garith, being scolded by Kellian, or eating Aunt Camilla’s cookies. Sometimes I wondered why my parents left. If it was my fault. When Uncle Diel talks about them, he makes it sound like they were the most romantic couple he had ever seen. But anyway …” She’d swirled the wine in her glass, thoughtful. “I’m glad I have everyone else. Parents matter less when you have a family like mine.”
Varden had stared at the flames burning in his fireplace. A supportive family must have been nice. Having anyone to catch you when you stumbled made life a lot easier. Growing up, he’d learned not to expect praise, had taken his victories in the disapproving glares of rivals and masters as he constantly managed to do better than them. As long as he succeeded, he knew Keroth was with him. The strength of his power over fire—his incredible control even when older priests struggled—became his best guide.
Branwen had stretched out on the couch, taking as much room as she could. “Do you have anyone back in Myria? I could never find anything on your family.”
Her question had shattered his relative peace of mind. “A fire took them. We were slaves locked in a wooden barn. I was six.”
Varden didn’t remember a lot of it. Chains and iron bars had kept everyone inside. He’d buried the events away, trying to ignore the holes in his memory and the flashes of recollection haunting his dreams. Branwen cleared her throat and emptied her glass of wine. She turned to face him.
“You survived.”
“I’m here, am I not?”
“How?”
“Because somehow, even at six, I could stand in the middle of a brazier and not die. Just me. No one else, and I couldn’t protect anyone.” The fire had blinded him, but human screams had pierced its roar. He still dreamed of his mother’s hand, blackened by the flames, grabbing his wrist, crying. He didn’t know if it was a real memory or not. He hoped he never would. “One of Keroth’s priests found me. They control major fires in Myria, extinguishing them safely. He told me I was standing in the middle of the building, flames still dancing around me like a cocoon, and he stole me away. Before someone could claim me as a slave again.”
Branwen had tilted her head to the side and propped herself up. “Fire put your entire family through a horrible death, so you decided to become a priest of Keroth?”
Her reaction had knocked his breath out. A little ‘I’m sorry’ before the insensitive questions would have been welcomed. He’d slammed the glass on the ground, almost breaking it, and straightened into a sitting position. His fingers had dug into the blankets to keep his hands from shaking too much.
“I love Keroth, but I did not choose Them. Isbari don’t choose, not in Myria. You take what life grants you and make the best from it. And at this?” He gestured toward the fire, and flames leaped into his palm, forming a swirling ball. “I am the best. Keroth destroyed my previous life—one of slavery and fear—to grant me another, where I control at least some of what happens to me. It hurt—it still hurts—but I’ve moved on. Creating one thing requires the destruction of another. When I draw, I use the leftovers of wood I burned. Such is the nature of the universe. Call me a fool, but I accept that while my life wasn’t without trials, I have at least been able to accomplish a lot already. Including saving you.”
His tone had hardened at the end, and he’d released the fire in his hands. Branwen had bitten her lower lip and stretched to set the empty glass on the ground.
“Sorry, Varden. I—I’m really glad for that, and my comment was horrible. After everything you’ve told me about Myria, I should’ve known better.”
Varden had barely refrained from agreeing with the last statement. Branwen wouldn’t stop berating herself for the mistake. She often spoke out of turn, and the stress of having her in his quarters or sneaking around the temple thinned his patience, but her apologies were quick and sincere. Varden had no desire to hold a grudge. He snatched his glass of wine and emptied it.
“To answer your original question, however, I did have someone. First, I had my people. Other Isbari looked up to me, sought my guidance and blessings, and I did my best to help. Then there was Miles.” He had smiled, breathed in. He could almost smell Miles’ light cologne, even so long after leaving Myria for Isandor. “You saw him in my sketchbook. Someone tipped the Myrian wizards to us, however. He arranged to be transferred far away before it got me into trouble. I think it contributed to my forced assignment to this mission, though.”
“How was he?”
“Really sweet.” They had shared so many secret routines. Every year on what passed for their anniversary, Miles had brought him fireflowers—the flowers under which they’d first kissed, almost a decade ago. “Shy, too. The first few years, we’d see each other all the time. It grew into a calmer relationship, but he helped me get through a lot.”
They’d discussed Miles for a while longer, with Varden recalling their first meeting. Branwen had stayed clear of the heaviest topics for the night, and after some time, she became drowsy. Varden had trouble remaining awake too—the wine and fire’s warmth enveloped him, soothing some of his worries away. They had fallen asleep still dressed.
Varden pushed the memories of last night away. He had dreamt of his parents again, crawling through the flames, trying to grab him. He hoped they would go away soon. He couldn’t afford to be distracted during the Long Night’s Watch ceremony. He finished the sketch of the enclave’s map for Branwen, then pointed to the eastern gates.
“You should leave through there. They put guards on the wall but not at the door itself. Time yourself between their patrols to sneak out. If Nevian manages it every other week, you should be fine.”
“Nevian?”
Varden realized his mistake too late. This wasn’t his secret to share, but the difficult night had dulled his wits, and he’d said too much. Varden had caught him once, and since then, he kept an eye out for the apprentice and sometimes helped him leave. Nevian had no idea, and perhaps that was for the best. He would push him further away, as he had whenever Varden attempted to get closer and make his life a little better.
“Nevian isn’t the docile and enduring apprentice he’d like us all to believe.” Varden smirked, then changed his charcoal for a quill. He began marking areas of his map, moving the conversation away from Nevian. “The prisons are here. Avenazar’s quarters are in the northern side of this building, here. This is my temple, and the guards’ quarters are near the enclave’s main door. If you can’t leave through the eastern gates, there is also an oak tree here, which might be tall enough to climb out from.”
He blew on his writing, then threw a bit of sand on it to dry. Branwen examined the map while they waited, her eyes darting about the rough plan as she committed it to memory. After a few minutes, she rolled it up. “When should I leave?”
“An hour after sunset. You should have enough light to navigate the enclave, and everyone will be either in their quarters or at the temple for the ceremony.”
“Perfect!” She slid the tiny map in her bosom, then lifted herself onto his desk. “Thi
s might be the most productive information gathering I’ve done in years. To think I believed it was over when you flame-jumped here with me. I … Thanks, Varden. You’re great. Not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” he asked. “A sadistic pyromaniac hell-bent on setting the world afire and crushing it under his foot? I hear that’s the new rumour in town these days.”
Branwen laughed—until she noticed his bitter expression. Varden couldn’t help himself. Her compliment reminded him of what others believed. Her mirth vanished. “They’ll forget. It doesn’t matter. They couldn’t be more mistaken.”
Varden shrugged. It did matter to him. Even if they hadn’t cared about his race, they had pegged him as a dangerous maniac. How was that any better? But perhaps with time, they would forgive and forget. He hoped he could prove them wrong one day.
“Let’s take care of Avenazar first. We’ll figure out something about my reputation after.”
“You bet we will!” Branwen smiled at him and set a hand on his forearm. “You’re a Dathirii ally now, and my friend. We don’t abandon either.”
Diel Dathirii strode into the Allastam Tower’s top garden with his chin high and his back straight. Great trees with white bark flanked the pathway, and their branches extended over his head, intertwined into a thick, natural roof. Their dark blue leaves matched House Allastam’s colours, and it gave Diel the impression night had fallen despite it being the middle of the day. Phosphorescent vines wrapped around their trunks, their pale blue glow compensating somewhat for the lack of sun. They didn’t help with the stuffy atmosphere, like the air itself had grown warm and heavy, but perhaps that was all in Diel’s heart and mind.
It seemed so long since he had last slept that Diel had forgotten what rest felt like. Horrible torture scenes featuring Branwen haunted Diel’s nights, keeping him wide awake. If only he had his Coalition! The other Houses’ refusal had poisoned his mind with bitterness. This city didn’t have a soul anymore. It welcomed invaders with an open heart, thinking only in terms of individual houses and profit. He wished he could make them see how horrible the Myrians were, but they were all too scared, and too obsessed with the dark elf about to be hanged for murder. They would make him pay for assaulting a noble house a decade ago, declare justice done, and ignore the much bigger threat now torturing Diel’s family under their nose.
He wasn’t done fighting, however. Diel intended to use every resource at his disposal. They had demanded soldiers, and he had come pleading for them.
He hated asking for Lord Allastam’s troops, but what other options were there? He needed them for the Coalition, and he needed them to extract Branwen from the Myrian Enclave. Kellian was already planning an assault. They would move after the winter solstice. Hit and run, if possible. Too many would die at the hands of the wizards as it was. Diel prayed Lord Allastam would agree—sending the Dathirii guards alone would result in a catastrophe. Diel didn’t often see eye-to-eye with the Allastams’ leader, but their respective families had been tacit allies since Lord Allastam’s grandfather had been Head of the House. Diel hoped it would be worth something today.
He reached the end of the pathway, where Lord Allastam waited as a king would on his subject. The subtle hint of superiority annoyed Diel, but he refrained his urge to stand taller, as his equal. The bigger and richer houses weren’t better despite what they often liked to think. Diel didn’t have the time and energy for power plays today, however, and he didn’t want to irritate Lord Allastam. He glanced at the other lord, meeting his eyes. His grey temples seemed to absorb the ambient blue light, giving them a darker shade. Perhaps that was intentional, to make him appear younger, but nothing could hide the angry wrinkles at his mouth. Decades of frowns and sneers had marked his skin. Diel nodded, then bent his head and looked down. The submissive position left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he endured. What was a little begging in exchange for Branwen’s life?
“Milord, thank you for the audience,” he said.
Lord Allastam answered with a derisive snort. “Cut to the chase, Diel. What do you want?”
Diel flinched. Allastam didn’t even grant him the courtesy of a title. He knew he was in a position of power here, and he seemed intent on enjoying every moment of it. Diel closed his eyes, breathed in deeply. The Allastams were the only House in Isandor with a decent standing military, and he didn’t have the funds to hire mercenaries. If he didn’t get their help, he would have nothing.
“Soldiers.” His voice was a whisper.
“You want to attack the Myrian Enclave.”
“Yes.” Diel spoke louder this time, his resolve hardening.
“They haven’t broken any laws.”
“They kidnapped my niece!”
He lifted his head and met Lord Allastam’s gaze. The other noble didn’t bother to hide his amusement. He clacked his tongue and shrugged.
“You have no proof of that. Master Avenazar was quite adamant in his denial, and I’m certain you’d have shown us anything that could support your claim.”
“You can’t be serious. I cannot find her. She was last seen at the very shop they burned to the ground. Where else could she be?”
“Dead.”
The possibility was like a punch to his gut. She wasn’t dead. He didn’t even want to consider it. Blood rushed out of Diel’s head, and the world blurred. Focus. He couldn’t let fear and exhaustion take over, couldn’t lose control like he had at the Coalition’s meeting.
“Then they killed her, and my point remains.” Diel squared his shoulders. “I need your help. You know I’d offer whatever support I could if they had your children. Please, milord. All I want is for Branwen to return home unharmed.”
Silence followed, and with every passing second, Diel grew certain he would be rebuffed. Lord Allastam had never intended to help. He was staring down at him, his sneer only half-concealed, enjoying his little power trip. Diel tried not to think of all the times he had cracked down on one of Lord Allastam’s immoral propositions at the Golden Table, of how often their opposing senses of ethics had put them at odds. How had Lord Allastam once expressed it? It’s not worth helping those who can’t help themselves, Lord Dathirii.
“I would never be in such a position,” Lord Allastam said. “I know not to make powerful enemies for the sake of a meaningless boy. You brought this on yourself, and I will not put my family at risk for your foolishness.”
“Ah, yes, my foolishness.” That’s what they always called it when he stood up for someone who wasn’t Dathirii. The despair building in Diel shifted, transforming into roiling anger. “If you had even an ounce of foresight, you’d realize the Myrians aren’t going to stop at a few influential trade deals. They own half the western lands, and we sit on a key position to move east. This is only the beginning. Once they’re done with my family, others will be next. Have you looked into what happened to other cities they conquered? We would lose all control, become puppets or be wiped out. We have to act now, but it seems I am foolish for trying to stop them before it is too late.”
“You are. Sometimes it’s best to bend rather than break.” Lord Allastam stepped forward and pushed Diel’s chest with his gold-tipped cane. “You never learned that lesson, and I’m glad I deal with Lord Yultes more often than with you. He’s more amenable to logic. I agreed to stay out of this affair rather than side with the Myrians and gain a great ally, so I suggest you quit your self-righteous lecture before I change my mind.”
Diel wrapped his fingers around the cane, his mouth dry and his head buzzing. Yultes had omitted to mention Lord Allastam had considered joining the Myrians. Did the Allastams want to upstage the Lorns, their biggest rival family and the holders of an invaluable trade deal with the enclave? How pointless would the Golden Table become if both of Isandor’s most powerful Houses sided with the Myrians’ interests? They wouldn’t need to have a seat of their own to dictate the city’s laws. Lord Allastam was too savvy a politician not to notice … which m
eant he didn’t care he’d be selling Isandor out. Diel lowered the cane with a sigh.
“You may be right. I’m wasting my time here.”
He cast a look around the beautiful garden. He remembered a time when the blue-leaved trees didn’t cover their heads entirely and sunlight shone upon the pathway. Lady Allastam had been alive, and she had spent many hours caring for the flowers spreading beyond the trees. He had visited once to find her slipping a crown of blue leaves onto her daughter’s head. Mia was a toddler at the time—they’d yet to learn chronic pain was what caused her to cry a lot and tire quickly—and Lord Allastam wasn’t as bitter and aggressive. Arrogant, yes. Self-serving, yes. But he still listened and smiled, and the household hadn’t seemed as dark as today. House Allastam had nothing left in it for Diel to ally himself with despite what Yultes might think.
“Let’s not make this meeting into a complete waste, then,” he said. “You have my personal congratulations for finally resolving your wife’s murder. I’m glad your loss can be put to rest, and this city can move on.”
The corner of Lord Allastam’s mouth stirred upward. “Ah yes, I bet you’re happy I won’t be attacking your friends the Freitz anymore. I hope we’ll see you at the execution, Lord Dathirii. Erik will be there.”
Diel wasn’t surprised to hear Lord Freitz would come. After a decade of enduring Lord Allastam’s violence on the assumption he was behind the murder, he must thank the gods that someone else took the blame. How ironic that Isandor’s bloodiest feud had relied on Lord Allastam’s baseless accusation, yet the very same lord had berated him for concluding Branwen was detained in the Myrian Enclave. But you couldn’t ask Lord Allastam to hold himself to the same standard as everyone else.
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