City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  Branwen took three strides before a rope of green energy snapped around her ankle and yanked. She fell, and searing white pain covered her sight as she smacked her chin against the solid stone. The rope pulled her, and Branwen’s hands clawed for a hold as Avenazar dragged her off the bridge. She let out a surprised yelp, then swore as he dangled her above a significant drop. Magic was so unfair.

  “Nevian decided he’d rather throw himself off the bridge. Want to follow?”

  After everything she’d heard about Avenazar, Branwen wondered if it might not be a better idea. Before she could answer, he flung her into the nearby tower. Her back smashed into the smooth stones, and she slid down into a minuscule garden, pain flaring in every muscle near her spine. The impact nauseated her, but when her fingers closed around a handful of small rocks, Branwen shook her head to clear it. Avenazar landed farther down the bridge.

  “Since Nevian is a bloody pile of broken bones, and dear Varden’s mind collapsed earlier, I think you ought to be my amusement for the night. I do so need to vent my frustrations.”

  “Too bad.” Branwen’s voice was raw, breathless. She clenched the small rock in her hand. “I had something else planned.”

  She threw the stone at the knife still stuck in Avenazar’s shoulder. It smashed into the hilt, drawing a surprised yelp of pain. Branwen scrambled up as the rope holding her flickered out. Avenazar glared, raising his palms.

  “You little—”

  Branwen flung another rock, clipping his forehead this time. He stumbled over the edge and she dashed away, not without a bit of pride. Her aim was as good as ever, but she’d only bought herself a few seconds. Avenazar could fly. If she didn’t reach Little Square by the time he recovered … better not to think of it. She put everything she had into her sprint, gritting her teeth against the pain running up her back with every long stride. She could bawl at the agony all she wanted once she was safe. Behind her, Avenazar’s outraged screams became louder. His fall hadn’t lasted. Branwen reached the pale tower and sprinted around, into Little Square and its disparate crowd.

  The Little Square stood on a small platform halfway up the Lower City with a large elm in the middle and flowers arranged around the massive tree. Four pathways shot away from it, each with their own flowery decorations and a handful of benches to rest. On most days, it was a quaint refuge from the area’s rundown stench. Tonight, it was also her only hope against Avenazar. Several people turned as she burst onto the platform and gave her wary looks before returning to their business. Little Square might be a nice park, but it was still located in the Lower City, and people knew better than to ask questions.

  Branwen scanned the crowd for a potential disguise, never breaking her stride. She noticed a trash can—a rarity anywhere out of the Upper City—and headed for it. A young couple occupied a bench on her way, the man too absorbed by their kiss to pay attention to the crumpled hat beside him. Branwen snatched it, shoved her hair and elven ears into it, then flipped the collar of Varden’s overcoat up. Her gait changed as she reached the trash can. She squared her shoulders to appear larger, hunched to the side, bent over the refuse, and started digging through it. Her fingers grazed slimy leftovers she didn’t care to identify as Avenazar flew above the edge of the park.

  He floated over the square, studying the crowd. Branwen focused on her search of the trash, tilting her head away. She smeared her cheeks, darkening them with filth, and hoped he wouldn’t pay any mind to the vagrant digging for a meal. A cold breeze blew across the park, and she noticed the kisser patting the bench beside him, searching for his hat. Go away, she thought at Avenazar. Find someone else to torment. She regretted the thought as it crossed her mind. That ‘someone’ would be Varden. Branwen bit her lower lip, snatched some rotting bread from the trash, and busied herself scratching the mould off it. Her hat-lender whispered something urgent to his girlfriend. Branwen’s heart thumped so loud in her ears, she was afraid it would give her away. Avenazar snorted.

  “I guess Varden will have to pay for the three of you,” he called out. “Just in case you’re around, here’s an idea of what awaits him.”

  Branwen’s grip on the old bread tightened. She forced herself not to react, not to let it get to her. Several folks turned to Avenazar, and their eyes widened as electricity gathered between his palms. They gasped and screamed in alarm, and Avenazar unleashed the energy on the great elm tree in the middle of Little Square. It caught fire as the sparks reached it. Branwen dashed away, diving behind the bench once occupied by the kissing couple. She found herself kneeling right in front of the hat’s owner and hushed him. On the other side of the square, Avenazar cursed and vanished.

  As soon as he disappeared, Branwen removed the hat and extended it back to its owner. “Sorry.” She wanted to add more, but her hands shook and her mind refused to come up with something witty. “Gotta go.”

  Branwen straightened up, shaken to the core. The great elm crackled under the flames. People shouted everywhere, calling for water buckets, rushing for safety. She covered her face, took a few deep breaths, then left Little Square and its burning tree behind. She was almost safe, but she dreaded the difficult climb to the Dathirii Tower. If only she could teleport home. Branwen had never longed for her family so much.

  Larryn would kill him.

  Cal sprinted through the Lower City, cursing himself. He couldn’t be late, not tonight. They had spent an entire week planning for this evening. Larryn had spied on the prison’s guards for days, memorizing their schedule, bribing them to learn Hasryan’s precise location, and gathering information on the special allowances made for the winter solstice. They had devised a dozen different approaches to sneak into the city guards’ headquarters and break Hasryan out of their jail.

  Calleran Masset, part-time priest of Ren, was at the centre of their final plan. Followers of the Unlady cherished the winter solstice, especially its long night. Many of Ren’s legendary schemes had been carried out in the dead of the night, and on this particular night, Xe had tricked Evzen, God of Birth and Death, into a game of luck, winning over a sliver of Evzen’s immortality and elevating Xirself to the rank of deity. Since then, people everywhere considered the solstice an excellent night for gambling and other chancy endeavours—perfect for a difficult prison break. Besides, Ren was the chosen patron of many thieves and scammers, and Xir priests were allowed to visit inmates and bless them, giving Cal and Larryn a legal reason to be inside.

  Entering the headquarters this way removed half the obstacles. Once past the first guards, they could veer into the high-security area and seek Hasryan. Sneaking around made Cal more nervous. Unlike Larryn, he hadn’t spent years training his discretion through frequent uninvited trips into the Dathirii Tower. He did, however, have incredible luck. When they had devised the plan, they had discussed Cal staying behind and keeping their cover up but determined he should come along. Happenstance always favoured him, and Larryn’s skills might not suffice. Not to mention, Hasryan could be wounded and in need of Cal’s meagre healing abilities.

  No matter how he looked at it, Cal concluded he was a crucial part of tonight’s scheme.

  And he had overslept.

  Larryn would definitely kill him. Hasryan, too, if he ever had the chance. No amount of running on his short, plump legs would make up for the lost time. All he had wanted was a nap, to be in better shape through the night! Cal took naps all the time, almost every single day. It was a habit he’d developed long ago, when he lived in the far south with his brothers. The heat there became so stifling, everyone slept through the late afternoon. Cal still did, despite moving to Isandor and complaining about the fast-approaching winter. His naps, however, never lasted more than an hour. Two when he was really exhausted, which hadn’t been the case earlier. Yet somehow, on this special day, he had slept so late into the evening it would be more proper to call it a night.

  Cal wanted to curse his luck, but he knew better. Ren wouldn’t betray him like that. Xe never
had before. Cal might not understand why he had overslept. He had, though, and he chose to see it as a sign. So he ran, hoping to arrive in time, or that his lateness would turn to their advantage. He had learned not to question his deity’s flights of fancy and trust Xir. Ren had a reason. Xe always did.

  It came falling from the sky, crashing on the bridge at Cal’s feet.

  He jumped back with a yelp, tripped on his feet, and landed on his ass. Cal rubbed the hurt flesh with a mutter before turning to what had surprised him. A long-limbed teenager had smashed on the bridge then rolled over. Blood splattered the stones under his head, stopping Cal’s heart and mind. So much red. After a moment of shock, he scrambled back up, his heart racing, and rushed to the young man’s side. He had to help. Now. With trembling hands, Cal withdrew his melted silver coin, knelt next to the teenager, and slapped his holy symbol on the kid’s chest.

  “All right, Ren. You brought me here. Don’t let me down.”

  Cal had never been the best healer. He could fix immediate injuries—enough to save a life—but the intricacies of the art didn’t interest him. Neither did they Ren, really, yet Xir soft laugh echoed in his mind as he focused on the spell, and white light spread from Cal’s coin, swirling straight to the teenager’s head and enveloping it. The blood puddle ceased to widen, but Ren’s presence grew distant almost right away. The glow flickered, then vanished. Shit. Cal tried to push the blood-soaked blond hair aside to inspect the damage, but he had no real idea how to evaluate this teenager’s health. He could stare at the wounds for hours without ever knowing if it looked good. Why had Ren put him here? Cal wasn’t who this kid needed! Calm down, he berated himself. Do your best. He’d figure out the rest after. Blood beat against his skull, but he set his palm over the coin a second time and managed to conjure another brief burst of healing.

  Cal then sat back with a groan. Now he was exhausted, but he hadn’t done much more than prevent an immediate death. Without a professional—someone who had an inkling of how to heal—this teenager wouldn’t make it through the night. And if they stayed here, the cold might finish him off anyway. Cal grabbed him by the armpits, determined to pull him out of the way. His weak muscles managed to slide the teenager an inch or two before he had to stop, out of breath. Sweat covered his body, and the chill wind cooled it further. He was hot and cold, and convinced he wouldn’t achieve anything on his own.

  This time, he did curse his luck. Why did it have to be someone twice his height? Why now? He could never save this kid and reach Larryn in time. Cal stared at the youthful face. Squarish, contorted in pain that seemed at home there, with deep pockets under his eyes. How could someone so young have years of fighting etched into his very traits? Cal checked his heartbeat and had trouble even finding it. He was dying, losing whatever war he’d been involved in. But Hasryan’s execution was in two days. They freed him tonight, or not at all.

  Either a teenager died there, right before his eyes, or his friend hanged before the end of the week.

  A disgusting choice, yet one that became more obvious with every passing second. Cal looked at the broken body before him again, then straightened up. “You stay right here, buddy. I’ll get help for you.”

  Cal spun around and started back toward the Shelter. His small steps lengthened into strides, then he launched into a sprint. His lungs burned from the night’s exercise, but now that he'd made his decision, a sense of urgency pushed him past his usual limits. He needed to save that kid. Why else would Ren have kept him in bed? Cal just hoped he would succeed, and fast. Once Larryn came back from the guards’ headquarters, Cal would become a dead halfling.

  ✵

  Arathiel studied the subdued atmosphere at the Shelter with worry. This place always bustled with activity, and the strange calm tonight didn’t sit well with him. True, Hasryan’s arrest had doused everyone’s mood, but it hadn’t stopped the locals from sharing in Larryn’s food and creating lively melodies. At times Arathiel had wished it had. It had felt wrong—Hasryan had obviously loved the wild rhythm of wooden-spoon music, fingers jumping and tapping in sync whenever he didn’t watch himself. He had smiled when Arathiel had pointed it out. Not his usual smirk, but a softer expression, more sincere.

  “This is what home sounds like to me now,” he had said.

  Home still played, but Hasryan couldn’t hear it anymore.

  Larryn and Cal weren’t around either, leaving Arathiel alone for winter solstice. He had hoped for another game with them, to keep himself distracted. Lady Camilla had invited him to join a small dinner with a few family members, and he hadn’t had the courage to accept. Perhaps he was missing out on a pleasant evening and a chance to catch up with old times, but every day, it became harder to return to his previous life. The more he settled into the Shelter, the less he wanted to knock at the Brasten Tower’s door and face his sister’s ghost. Lindi so often hovered at the edge of his thoughts, as if she stayed with him, participating in his mind in this new life he was growing for himself.

  Arathiel took a long swig of ale. The liquid flowed down his throat, but he couldn’t tell whether it was warm or cool. Perhaps it tasted like piss, though Arathiel doubted Larryn would ruin his reputed meals with shit drinks. Not that he even remembered what it tasted like. After a while, certain memories had turned into blanks. Arathiel wished he could imagine the taste the way he sometimes mentally cast more vibrant colours on the towers outside. As if the projection could ever give him back his senses. He ought to stop and move on but couldn’t. He remembered enough for the rest to cling at the edge of his consciousness, refusing to let go.

  Arathiel set his pint on the counter and slid off his stool. A walk in the cold might improve his mood. After all, it didn’t matter if others froze outside. He wouldn’t feel it at all. Moving around would get his blood flowing and his spirits back up, however. Physical exertion always helped, whether through endless treks, a quick exhausting run, or training to improve his balance.

  He had almost reached the door when it was flung open. Cal dashed inside, panting, and Arathiel caught him before he crashed into a table. Red streaks covered his cheeks, the marks deeper than exercise and cold should warrant. Had he cried? Cal’s breath came in painful gasps, and he sniffled. Definitely cried, though from what Arathiel had no idea.

  “Woah there. Calm down.” Several heads turned to stare at them, and the sudden attention gave him goosebumps. Arathiel led his friend back outside, eager to escape the unwelcome scrutiny. “Let’s go out. Breathe a little.”

  Cal wiped his tears and nose with his sleeve. His movements were shaky, but he managed to stifle his gasps as they exited. He wrapped his stubby fingers in the fabric of Arathiel’s pants as if holding on for life. Cal lifted bright blue eyes to him. A long second trickled by in which he remained silent, and Arathiel felt himself being evaluated, as if Cal sorted through how much he could say, if anything. Apparently he passed because when Cal started talking, it surged out in a semi-coherent ramble.

  “It’s that teenager. He just fell—almost on me—and I tried to heal him, but I’m not good and I think he’s going to die anyway, and I left him there on the bridge—just like that!—and anyone could come by and do something fatal to him, but I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t move him by myself, not with these tiny flabby arms, so I ran all the way back here.” He breathed deeply, then coughed. “My lungs feel like little balls of flames spinning and burning everything inside, my mind included, and there’s no way I’ll ever fix this kid and get to the guards’ headquarters in time to save Hasryan and I ruined—”

  “Wait, what?” Cal’s entire story had been near impossible to follow, but Arathiel had handled it well until that last part. He couldn’t let that slip uninterrupted. “Save Hasryan?”

  Cal slapped a hand over his mouth with a horrified expression. “I said nothing! Especially not that!”

  He had. Arathiel glanced around, making sure no one had heard them, or would. Cold dark nights did not prompt a lot
of traffic, for which he was thankful. Arathiel put his hand over Cal’s and squeezed. “It’s all right. You can tell me. I don’t like these accusations any more than you do.”

  Cal’s wistful expression told Arathiel he was considering it, but he gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Nuh-uh, not twice. Forget you heard anything? Pretty please? Except everything about the dying teenager who really needs to be moved to safety?”

  Arathiel bit back his questions about Hasryan, even though he’d rather know what was going on with him. In the few choice nights he’d spent with Larryn, Cal, and Hasryan, he’d grown attached to their trio, and to the dark elf in particular. Hasryan knew how it felt to be the outsider, the weird one others stared at, and it calmed Arathiel to have this kindred spirit, even if they had little else in common. Cal’s pleading tone convinced him to hold back, however. Pushing a panicked friend for more information wouldn’t be right. “Okay. Let’s start by bringing your kid here. He can be in my room if you want.”

  “No need. The one across from yours is empty. I’ll give him that.” Cal craned his neck to look up at Arathiel, a forced smile on his lips. “Just lift and carry him, and I’ll manage everything else. You don’t have to trouble yourself further.”

  “It sounded like you had a lot on your plate two seconds ago.” Arathiel kept his tone warm and inviting, but Cal shot him a warning glare, so he raised a hand in apology. “I get it. I heard nothing. Everything is perfectly fine, and you never mentioned a certain friend of dark elven descent. Show me the way.”

  He motioned down the street. Cal mumbled his thanks, then trotted off, taking two steps for every of Arathiel’s long strides.

  ✵

  By the time they arrived, Cal shivered and drew his winter cloak tight around his shoulders. The sweat from his long run must have cooled down, freezing him, and Arathiel wondered how cold it actually was. He remembered wearing extra layers of fur at this time of the year and regretted not throwing a cloak on. Walking through the city with a simple shirt had already earned him several weird looks, and he didn’t want to draw more attention than necessary to his body. The disbelief and confusion in others’ gazes reminded him of his own sense of disconnect. Arathiel ran a hand over his arm, as much a fake attempt to warm himself up as a gesture of reassurance. The pressure might be distant and barely noticeable, but the movement’s familiarity grounded him. He was real, he had returned home, and he might still build a life for himself here.