City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Of course, milord. It must be an immense relief for Lord Freitz to see his name cleared, and to contemplate the reparations sure to come his way.” Diel almost regretted the last sentence. Almost. The anger flashing across Lord Allastam’s face erased any misgivings he had about infuriating him, burying them under intense satisfaction. “If you’ll excuse me, I have my own family to see to.”

  He didn’t wait for approval and turned on his heel, striding down the blue-tinted garden without another word. It was a meagre victory, but he would not let Lord Allastam dismiss him like a vulgar servant.

  Diel’s shoulders slumped the moment he left the Allastam Tower. That had gone worse than expected. He had no soldiers, almost a new enemy, and he had never felt more disconnected from Isandor before. His throat tightened as he hurried through vine-covered bridges to the tree-like tower of his home. Panic and exhaustion were crawling into his mind, turning his thoughts to dark torture again, and he needed Jaeger’s arms to keep it at bay. Stave off his rising despair long enough to prepare their last-resort attack on the Myrian Enclave.

  High Priest Varden Daramond stared at his temple’s brazier, amazed by its strength. Several tree trunks formed a tent, and acolytes had fed the fire large logs throughout the day, building a tower of flames that reached to the high roof. Varden stood just a foot away. The heat would have been unbearable to anyone else, but he had shielded himself. The fire didn’t burn, it caressed. He watched it dance, marvelling at the shifts in colour and intensity, dazed by its beauty. If only he had an enormous canvas and large chunks of charcoal. He would draw until exhaustion crawled into his muscles and killed the urge, until he could only collapse to the ground, satisfied by his art. One of these days, he would start a massive project like that. Something so big he would need week upon week to finish it.

  This was neither the time nor place, however. The Long Night’s Watch would begin in an hour, and he had to be in shape for the demanding ritual. Varden glanced down at his ceremonial outfit. The heavy multilayered garb seemed hotter to him than the blazing fire nearby. Thick black fabric was sewn in a triangle pattern with a lighter, pale orange material. The robes fell in waves around him, more orange than black, moving almost like flames. Varden closed his eyes and relaxed his breathing. Tonight, the triangles would become more than an illusion of fire. He allowed his mind to wander, soaking in the heat, reaching for Keroth’s blessed strength. Through the roar and crackle of flames, he heard a small puff—or perhaps he felt it more than anything. He peeked down. The orange triangles had lit with real, tiny flames.

  His personal light, to carry them through the darkness of the night. He was ready.

  Varden turned and watched acolytes shuffle into the temple’s large hall. They had arrived early, but he wasn’t surprised. Every member of the Firelord’s faith waited for this night with great anticipation. Their collective strength would be required tonight. Each of them carried a small black torch. One of the elderly priests had remained at the temple’s main gates, distributing them to any newcomers from the enclave. It took longer for the other Myrians to arrive, but they filed in as the sun set through the large windows. Keroth’s faith was widespread throughout the Empire, and while they were far from home, no one would miss such an important ceremony.

  They lined up along the aisle. Everyone wore dark robes, a thin sash around their waist, and held small bandannas to cover their eyes. Theirs weren’t enchanted like the rekhemal, however, except for two triangles of the same orange fabric from which Varden’s robes were crafted, meant to be put before their eyes. The High Priest studied the group. All of the fifty or so gathered in the temple’s hall were Myrians—pale-skinned, most of them with blond hair, all proud of their heritage and their homeland. The other Isbari in the enclave were slaves and no doubt had their own smaller ceremony, honouring both Keroth and other deities. Varden wished he could be with them instead of with the Myrians who scorned him.

  He knew his reputation in the temple. He was the oddity, the one who had broken through their crushing oppressive structures and succeeded, the one who flaunted the natural talent so common among Isbari right in their faces. From his youngest age, he had defied their expectations and walked with Keroth’s blessing. Varden had spent two decades within the church, and he’d met his equal only once—a priest whose gender flickered like the flames, elusive and changing. Varden remembered the raw power emanating from them, the way flames seemed drawn into them, a part of them. Others looked at him with the same envious awe he’d had for this priest, but with an added layer of resentment. Isbari were not supposed to have that kind of power, and it didn’t sit well with most Myrians to see him exist.

  Yet here they were, ready to follow and support him through the Long Night’s Watch. The whisper of their conversations died, and irregular crackling from the fire behind Varden filled the expectant silence. Time to begin. He withdrew his rekhemal, brushing his finger over the fabric once. He prayed that Nevian would ask for it again one day, and that Branwen would make it out of the enclave. He had done all he could for both of them.

  High Priest Varden Daramond straightened up, squared his shoulders, and spread his arms out to call for attention. Every eye turned to him.

  “The Long Night is approaching. Light dims and darkness grows, but still the sun shines upon us. Bathe in its last rays, and partake in their strength to better face the struggle before us.”

  His voice boomed through the hall, powerful. Varden always surprised himself when he began a ceremony. He preferred to speak in soft tones, to measure his speech and use kind words instead of threats. Yet when he stood before a crowd, his chest seemed to grow larger. The confidence permeating his voice bolstered him. The last minutes of sunlight filtered through the glass windows on each side of the temple’s hall, imbuing them all with its warmth. Varden waited, the brazier at his back and the crowd in front, until the last ray vanished.

  He knew the very moment it happened. Keroth’s presence weakened during winter solstice as They took Their annual rest. It was up to Their priests all across the land to defend the world against the night’s illusions and dangers.

  “The Long Night has come.”

  Varden tied the bandanna around his eyes, and the acolytes followed suit. They hated this part, the long minutes when nothing was visible to them and they had to rely on their other senses. Only Varden’s rekhemal had been enchanted with awareness, enhancing his senses—hearing, smell, and touch. Everyone else stayed in the dark as Varden led them into the first chant, about the blindness of men, the danger of illusions. His heart wasn’t in the verses tonight. He repeated them without thinking, his mind on Branwen sneaking through the enclave. Had she made it to the gates yet? Was she safe? Was he safe? As he reached the end of the psalm, he forced his thoughts back to the ceremony.

  “Keroth, bless us with your eyes, grant us your wisdom, let us see each other as bright flames, illuminating the enemies lurking in the dark. May our faith shine bright. Raise your torches!”

  Through the bandanna’s magic, Varden could hear every shuffle, every breath from the crowd. A flurry of heavy fabric indicated arms brandishing torches. Varden shifted his focus to the fire behind, and the flames leaned into him. He didn’t need to see. With the rekhemal, he became one with them, his awareness spreading through the fire, expanding far beyond anything he could have otherwise dreamed. The bristling energy made Varden feverish, tense, as if on the verge of bursting. He took a deep breath, focused on the heat running across his arms, then exhaled.

  Balls of fire sprouted from the flames whipping about him. They spun over his head, more and more numerous, until Varden lowered his extended arms and brought them back in front of him, palms still open, facing out. The balls hovered for an instant, as if confused, then zipped through the main hall. Each of them hit a torch, lighting it bright and clear. A few audience members gasped, but most remained stoic. The sashes around their waists gave a soft glow, as did the triangles set before thei
r eyes. They would all see one another now, and Varden’s robes would be a beacon at the front. Maintaining their sight during the night would exact a powerful toll on him, but relief spread through the crowd. Varden allowed the sentiment to settle.

  “Steady, my friends. Though darkness is unrelenting, we are strong and we will hold. We are candles in the night, warding off shadows.”

  “We are candles in the night.”

  Fifty enthusiastic voice repeated his words, lending Varden their strength. Tonight, he was their beacon, their guide, and they followed with eagerness. The trust filled his chest with warmth, and he launched into the second chant, his determination renewed. Psalms and meditations succeeded each other during the Long Night’s Watch ceremony, acolytes taking strength in them and in the large fire behind their High Priest. Time lost its meaning and flew by unheeded as Varden led them through the rites, his concerns for Branwen giving way to his duties.

  They crashed back as the temple’s main doors swung open with a plaintive creak. Varden’s heart caught in his throat. His awareness still resided in the crowd’s torches, and he could sense the newcomer. Avenazar’s snide voice called his name with terrifying joy.

  “High Priest Varden Daramond!” The chant died on everyone’s lips. Panic crushed Varden’s insides, and for a moment the torches’ lights wavered. Avenazar continued, and the sound of his voice helped Varden pinpoint him. “What a marvellous ceremony. But perhaps I could make it into an even better show?”

  Hushed whispers ran through the crowd, and the acolytes shifted aside as Avenazar moved among them. Part of Varden screamed at him to douse the torch and fire, limiting Avenazar’s sight, but the thought nauseated him. Keroth relied on them to keep the light steady, to stay strong through the night. He would hold as long as he could.

  “What a pleasant surprise to have you here, Master Avenazar,” Varden said, his tone smooth despite the tightness in his throat. “Please, settle among the acolytes. Your strength can only bolster ours.”

  “I’ll show you some bolstering, you traitorous scum!”

  The crowd gasped. Varden stepped back, focused on the torches. Avenazar pushed acolytes aside as he advanced on him. The wizard knew. Somehow, he had found out. Varden prayed for Branwen’s safety and took another step away. Where could he go? Did it matter? Avenazar had called him a traitor. His life in the Myrian Enclave was over. Varden turned his attention to the remainder of the great brazier, a terrible pain in his chest where his heart hammered. Go. Flee. All he needed was to stride back into the fire and jump. Yet his muscles refused to budge, frozen against his will, a cold spell binding them. A hundred torches wavered as power slipped from his control.

  Fingers touched his neck, long and slim. Not Avenazar’s. Varden could still track his progress up the aisle. Then Jilssan’s smooth voice whispered in his ear:

  “I’m sorry, handsome, but you’ll have to warm yourself another way.”

  Intense nausea spun Varden’s head. He couldn’t even twitch under her grasp. Had she turned him into stone? How had he not felt it? Jilssan untied the rekhemal, and the artificial vision of orange triangles vanished, replaced by the diminished glare of real torches. The binding spell relaxed as Avenazar reached him. All at once, the acolytes tore off their bandannas to watch. Varden noticed Isra at the temple’s entrance, wide-eyed. Scared? He had no time to determine. Master Avenazar clasped his hands around his forearm, and Varden flinched. This was the very spot he always grabbed on Nevian. Energy gathered in the wizard’s palm, a preview of the immense pain that awaited him.

  “Varden, my friend,” Avenazar said, his voice smooth once again, “did you really think you could sneak out at night, betray us to the Dathirii, and not face the consequences? Someone was bound to see you. Like a brilliant young apprentice, returning from a mission.”

  Varden’s gaze shifted to Isra, confused. Sneak out at night? He would fire-stride if he ever needed to do anything like that. Had she invented this to get back at him? He had talked down to her when looking for Nevian—always dangerous when dealing with a Myrian. Even the most tolerant ones could turn your life into hell. All it took was a little lie about an Isbari traitor, sneaking out …

  Sneaking out like a certain apprentice, leaving the enclave in the dead of night, skipping sleep in order to study. Living his double life with the secret help of the temple’s High Priest. Varden’s breath caught as he understood. Isra had seen someone, without a doubt. Had Nevian known yesterday as he returned the rekhemal to Varden? He’d seemed so … terrified. He must have. And he’d said nothing, instead getting rid of what he thought was their only connection.

  Avenazar discharged his power into Varden’s arm, and the pain shot right to his mind. The High Priest screamed and collapsed to his knees, panting. Every torch in the temple flared then died. Avenazar laughed and dug his fingers into Varden’s flesh.

  “Not so proud now, are you?”

  Varden stifled a bitter chuckle. Public humiliation couldn’t touch his pride. He’d had to stoop to Myrians every day, obeying disgraceful orders, enduring whispered insults until his position offered some leeway. And even then … Overt pride got Isbari killed. You had to seal it off, keep it secret. The discharge had blown his wits away, however, and when Varden tried to answer, only a pained mumble came out.

  “I … no. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t bother.” Avenazar grabbed his chin and pulled him close. Varden’s skin sizzled under his fingers, and the priest moaned. It shouldn’t. Fire had never burned him before. But Keroth was far away tonight, resting. Avenazar’s magic wasn’t fire as much as raw power. The wizard chuckled. “I can check myself.”

  The world darkened as a bloated presence forced its way into Varden’s head, flattening his mind against his skull, squishing everything into a bloody pulp as it occupied every inch of space available. Varden cried out but barely heard himself. He fought for control, clawing at Avenazar’s immense power. The wizard browsed through his memories with childish glee, wrenching those of interest from their rightful place and bringing them to the forefront.

  Varden found himself standing on the cobblestone road leading through the eastern gate, frowning. He’d noticed a shape slink along the walls while returning to Keroth’s temple, but now that he moved closer, he couldn’t spot anyone. Had he imagined it? Who would try to avoid detection? The priest retreated behind a nearby building, crouching into the shadows to spy upon the entrance. He waited, more and more convinced his mind was playing tricks on him, until he noticed movement again. Varden tracked the shape with his eyes, his palms sweaty.

  His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the lanky teenager Avenazar tortured every day. Nevian. And he was acting against orders, heading toward the east gate to sneak out? A slight smile reached Varden’s lips at the unexpected defiance. It vanished when he spotted a soldier on the wall, moving at a leisurely pace. He would catch Nevian soon. Had the young apprentice not noticed? Nevian kept creeping forward, unaware. They would find him out. The Myrian Enclave had only been settled for a few months, but Varden understood Avenazar’s punishment would be dire.

  Varden prayed to Keroth for guidance and forgiveness. Getting involved put him and perhaps the whole temple at risk, but how could he stay out of this? He opened his palm, cast his awareness forward until it settled on the guard’s torch, and closed his fist to douse it. The soldier cursed as the flame went out. Nevian ducked into hiding, then edged out and made a dash for the exit while he had the cover of shadows.

  Varden’s memory faded, and his eyes fell upon the temple’s stone floor under him. Avenazar’s outrage swirled, gaining strength, pressing against Varden’s mind and inflicting on him a terrible nausea. Nevian dared! Avenazar’s rage coalesced into a resounding scream, thousands of times worse than when he’d thought Varden had betrayed him to the Dathirii. He ripped through the priest’s memories, tearing apart two years of life at the enclave to uncover every single time Varden had helped the young apprent
ice. Shreds scattered in his broken mind. He tried to cling to these moments, but they slipped through his fingers, fuzzier with every attack from Avenazar. The priest fought, desperate to keep these memories intact. A soft moan escaped his lips. Helping Nevian was one of the rare good things he’d done while at the enclave. Helping him and—no. Varden tried to stop himself, but too late. The fleeting image of Branwen Dathirii, sitting in his quarters with a glass of wine, had crossed his thoughts. Avenazar pounced on it.

  What’s this, Varden? An elven friend?

  Avenazar released him. The sudden disappearance created a hole in Varden’s mind, an emptiness impossible to fill. Pain exploded as his consciousness reclaimed the space that was his, and he crumpled to the ground with a final scream. His head throbbed. He rolled over, shaking. An elven friend. Varden stared at the ceiling above, with large arches climbing alongside like flames licking the dome. His temple? He tried to gather his mind, to remember where and when he was, but the jumble of confused memories refused to cooperate. Two years had been stacked and mixed inside his head, leaving writhing fragments behind. He needed more time.

  An invisible hand grabbed the front of his ceremonial garb and pulled him up. Varden’s muscles throbbed as his feet lifted from the ground. Avenazar stood beside him, palms extended in his direction. He made him rotate until the priest faced a gathering of acolytes. The ceremony, Varden recalled. Tonight was the Long Night’s Watch. Their torches had died. No one held watch for Keroth while They rested. Varden’s gaze scanned the crowd, slow and dazed. The fire behind cast a flickering light on horrified and enraged faces.

  “Our good Isbari priest hides a lot from us, it seems,” Avenazar said. “Would you believe he’d secreted away a Dathirii elf—our enemy—in his quarters?”