“He’s hiding something.”
Jaeger shifted behind him, staring at Diel instead of the door, his mouth a hard line. “Whatever it is, we are best off not knowing.”
A hot iron spike through his mind greeted him as he returned to consciousness. He moaned, and his hand crawled to the top of his head, as if the touch of cool fingers could soothe the pain and allow him into the jumbled mess behind. His thoughts. Nevian’s thoughts. The name felt right, but he struggled to associate anything with it. He opened his eyes, hoping his surroundings would trigger some remembrance. Nothing familiar around him. Was that normal? He stared at the ceiling—decrepit wood instead of smooth stones—and grew convinced he had never seen this place before. Good. A new location, even to his faulty memory. He had no blankets, and sunlight plunged into his room from the window on the left. Was it early morning or late afternoon? How long had he been here?
Nevian closed his eyes again and fought to keep his breathing steady. He tried to dig out his most recent memories despite his throbbing head. Images trickled through—the night sky obscured by spires and vines, a snide cackle, a hand on his forearm. Avenazar. Master Avenazar of the Myrian Enclave. His mentor. Tearing his mind to shreds. The memory drew a whimper from Nevian. Some things were better forgotten. Like rolling off the bridge to escape, through death if necessary.
“I’m … alive?”
His voice was coarse. He’d screamed a lot the previous night. He knew that much. His cracked and weak question received an immediate, enthusiastic answer.
“You’re awake!”
Nevian glanced sideways toward his exhausted-sounding watcher. A halfling scuttled to the bed, not more than three feet high, with ear-length blond hair and plump cheeks, one of which was bruised. Plump lots-of-things, really. He climbed onto a chair next to the bed and leaned forward with a large smile. His happiness irritated Nevian. He clacked his tongue and returned his attention to the ceiling, which at least didn’t spin like the floor had.
“Maybe I sleep talk. Where am I?”
“Safe.”
“That does not answer my question,” Nevian said, “and I highly doubt the veracity of it.”
His retort was met by a pout. The halfling crossed his arms. “This is Larryn’s Shelter. We found you dying on a bridge. You almost fell right on top of me. I’m Cal, by the way.”
Nevian wished he had crashed on him. It would have broken his fall, and perhaps diminished his headache and nausea. Although Avenazar’s attacks might be as much to blame as the brutal landing. Nevian closed his eyes again, trying to focus. Even thinking demanded all his energy, as if his mind had grown dull and lazy. Had he lost his talent for rigorous logic and coherence? Fear squeezed his insides. He needed to get back on his feet and figure out what Avenazar had taken and how much of him was left. Whenever he tried to remember more of last night, however, the pounding in his head became splitting agony.
“Never heard of this place. If you want to live, you’ll let me be.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Don’t mess with Avenazar. Don’t.”
Nevian’s voice turned pressing, and he heard in it the visceral panic gripping his heart. Don’t anger Avenazar. A rule he just knew and did not question. He had triggered the night’s assault by making his master furious. Always a terrible idea.
“I don’t care who I have to mess with!” Cal threw up his hands, then caught Nevian’s gaze and stared him down. “I had important things to do yesterday, real important. One of my friends might die because I stopped for you, and the other slammed his fist in my face and won’t talk to me. You don’t get to shoo me away, and no Myrian wizard gets to kill you on my watch. I refuse.”
Cal’s voice morphed halfway through the tirade from an angry rant to a broken whisper. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away. Nevian focused on the ceiling, ill at ease with his intense reaction. Was he supposed to comfort him? It wasn’t his decision if Cal had stopped! He shouldn’t have to deal with his feelings! It would be hard enough to piece his memories back together, if at all possible, and he did not want the burden of someone else’s problems. Nevian pointedly looked away until the little crisis had passed.
“Your healer left about an hour ago, but they gave me instructions.” Cal sniffled then withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. “These are questions. They might jog your memory. Vellien said your mind was destroyed when they got there. They salvaged the core from the wreckage, which apparently meant preserving your inability to express any form of gratitude, but let’s ignore that for now. They’ll be back tomorrow. Until then, these are supposed to help.”
“Questions.” He didn’t bother to hide his doubts. A powerful wizard had demolished everything inside Nevian, blocking or destroying entire aspects of his life—and Nevian couldn’t tell which! Avenazar would return to kill him sooner or later, to put a definite end to Nevian. And their solution was questions. “You think questions can give me my memories back? That questions can protect me?”
His breath hitched, and his vision swam. The walls closed in, pressing down on him and stifling him. Nevian tried to slow his frantic heart. He had to calm down and pull himself together. Something of incredible value was locked away in his mind. He knew it, and he’d fight for it as long as he lived. Small fingers landed on his hand, startling him.
“It’s a start, no?” Cal said. “Vellien knew what they were doing. They saved your life and fixed your leg. If they say this list can help you, I believe them. Give them a chance, at least.”
Nevian propped himself on an elbow—a position he held exactly two seconds before his nausea overtook him and he collapsed back to the bed. Now that Cal mentioned it, Nevian noticed the distant sting of his left leg. Nothing that compared with the pain ensnaring his head, however. He was such a mess, but perhaps staying busy would help him.
“Fine. Ask.”
Cal’s big grin made Nevian regret his decision immediately. Too late. Cal brandished his list and read off it.
“What’s your name?”
“Nevian.”
“And you were an apprentice with the Myrians. For a long time?”
Nevian massaged his temples. How long? He tried to stretch his memory and come up with an answer, but it only made his headache worse. After a moment, Cal moved on.
“Do you remember how old you are?”
“Seventeen?” It sounded right. “Yes. Seventeen.”
Images of his birthday with another wizard surfaced. A woman. Sauria. His first master, before Avenazar. She had given him a dozen books to read and joked that he would be done within three months. He’d finished in twenty-four days. Nevian smiled a little.
“Wow, you can actually smile!” Cal exclaimed. “I take it the questions are working! Do you know where you are?”
“Larryn’s Shelter. Or so you said.”
“No, I mean … as a more general thing. Where are you?”
Nevian lacked an immediate answer to this one. He struggled to conjure a hand-drawn map of the world in his mind, ignoring the growing headache to pinpoint his location on it. Not west, in the sprawling Myrian Empire. His focus shifted to a snaking river in the northern hemisphere, but still south of Mehr. Nal-Gresh, the Stone Egg, the greatest port city on the east coast, thrived at its mouth. But that wasn’t it either. “We’re … in Isandor, along the Reonne River.”
“Great!”
Cal clapped. Nevian winced at the harsh sound and glared at him, which caused Cal to slap a hand over his mouth. The brief silence didn’t last, and they went back to work. His questions exhausted Nevian. Every answer brought its share of memories, but while he could attach some to clear moments of his life, many just floated around his mind, unhinged. Nevian tried to piece the puzzle back together. As time passed, however, his energy declined. Even listening to Cal was becoming harder, let alone focusing enough to give an answer. Nevian eventually snapped.
“Is that all?” he asked, interrupting the next question. “Or
are there a hundred more on your list?”
For a moment, Cal only stared at him with wide eyes, his mouth hanging half open. Then he folded the list—a silly precaution, considering how crumpled it was. “Just one more. Do you need anything? Food? Water?”
“Silence.”
Water, too, but Nevian refused to admit it. After such a long discussion, he wanted nothing more than sweet silence. The sun had moved farther up in the sky, shifting light away from his room, which felt stuffy and hot to him. He needed to rest and recover, to let everything he’d learned sink in. Pieces of his time in the enclave had come back, but through it all, Nevian had noticed one thing missing: his knowledge of magic. He could remember entire nights studying, putting together spells that Master Avenazar refused to teach him, but no matter how much he tried, the spells themselves remained a mystery. The frustration, fatigue, and stress had stayed, yet the result of his hard work was gone. Vanished forever.
“Okay, fine. I get it.” Cal slid off his chair, his smile stiff. “You want me to leave. No more annoying halfling. Never mind that he saved your life.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Nevian turned to stare at Cal. “You were too late. Everything important is gone. I don’t thank people for salvaging an empty husk.”
“You should. At least you have an opportunity to fill it back up. Not everyone gets that chance.”
Cal crossed the room, slapped the list of questions on a minuscule desk barely big enough to hold two tomes, then stalked to the door. He slammed it as Nevian focused his attention on the ceiling, and the loud noise sent a sharp pain through his mind. At least peace returned after.
Nevian closed his eyes and grasped once more at his memories, as if it would change anything. Perhaps the healer could help. Nevian would make them try. He hated giving up. Besides, Cal had a point: it wasn’t over. Not yet. Even though Nevian doubted Avenazar would allow him time to pull himself back together. Once the wizard realized Nevian had survived, he would find him again, and it would only become worse. No one escaped Master Avenazar. That, at least, Nevian hadn’t forgotten.
A thin sheet of sweat covered Arathiel’s body, but none of his muscles ached from his exhausting physical training as he returned to the Shelter. The last hour of climbing trees and jumping down would leave only the best athletes in good shape. Even considering the healthy training regime he had kept as House Brasten’s weapon master, he should be hot and tired, straining from his heavy breathing, and ready to collapse. A century had passed since his last serious routine, and he’d barely slept last night.
His talk with Camilla had lasted until the sky greyed over. She confirmed executions still happened at Carrington’s Square, and several bridges above would allow him to drop close to Hasryan. Which meant he needed to learn to land. He used to be able to tuck himself into a ball and soften any fall, but that technique involved responding exactly when his feet hit the ground. Hard to do when you no longer felt it. So Arathiel had waited for the rumour mill to confirm Hasryan was still imprisoned, then headed out of Isandor and into the nearby woods, east along the Reonne River, where no indiscreet eyes would catch him during practice. He’d climbed countless trees, springing down and trying to roll with the landing from visual cues.
It didn’t go well. Arathiel stopped halfway through the morning. His feet didn’t hurt—of course not—but a normal step left him off balance. He suspected he had pushed his muscles to their limit. If he strained or broke something, there would be no rescue. He could always try again later today and tomorrow, after a short rest. For now, he wanted to examine his feet with Camilla’s mirror to ensure no wounds would ruin his plan, then he could check on Cal and the teenager they’d saved yesterday. Perhaps Larryn would even have breakfast left for him.
When Arathiel stepped back into the Shelter, he found it deserted. A few patrons huddled near the fire—had it been cold?—and a strange, heavy atmosphere filled the place. He tried to pinpoint the source of the malaise, and the pervasive silence hit him. No music played in the Shelter, and the hushed conversations of those present remained inaccessible to Arathiel’s ears. He traversed the common room and pushed open the door to the side corridors, leading into the tower with the private rooms.
An Isandor guard waited at his door, her arms crossed. She had straight dark hair, a serious and round face, and was of obvious Tuenese descent. How uncommon for anyone from the Peninsula to travel so far north. Her rumpled uniform and the bags under her eyes signalled a tiring night, but as soon as he stepped into the corridor, she straightened herself and approached him.
“Mister Arathiel? I’m Lieutenant Sora Sharpe, investigator for the Isandor Sapphire Guard. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Arathiel had no illusions about her chosen topic. Sharpe was in charge of Hasryan’s case, and there had been a suspicious prison break during the previous night. Others must have told her he participated in Hasryan’s card games. Arathiel nodded to her, opened his door, and let her in. If he refused to answer her questions, she would know something was up. He had to risk it.
“Ask away,” he said.
Sharpe didn’t, not right away. She scanned the room, her alert eyes stopping on every detail. She lingered on the handheld mirror but didn’t comment. Instead, she turned to him and offered a reassuring smile.
“Where were you last night?”
Arathiel hesitated. Careful now. He might never have gone to the prison, but his friends had. If only he’d spoken with Cal before, he would know when to lie and when to tell her the truth. The best might be to stick as close as he could to what had happened. “I moved around a lot, so I hope you’re not busy,” he said. “I was sitting in the Shelter’s common room until midnight, or about.”
Her gaze narrowed. “After that?”
“Cal arrived. He was panting and panicked, so I asked what was going on. A teenager had crashed on one of Isandor’s bridges in front of him. He wanted help moving him. If you’ve seen Cal … well, he’s a halfling. He couldn’t drag a human all the way here.”
He hoped his calm tone convinced her, and that Cal and Larryn hadn’t invented anything ridiculous to protect themselves. A single contradiction could blow their cover, and if it also put Arathiel in trouble … He would never save Hasryan with Sora Sharpe watching over his shoulder.
“You went?”
“We got Larryn first, then went, yes.” His heart sped up, but he didn’t hesitate. How else could they convince her Larryn had never been around the guards’ headquarters? At least now if patrons hadn’t seen him at the Shelter, he had a plausible justification. Arathiel repeated to himself it was a logical lie, one Larryn could come up with on his own. “It took a long time. I’d say we might have returned about two in the morning? Hard to tell. Then I left again, to find a professional healer.”
“What did you carry? Head or legs?” Sharpe asked. Arathiel’s confusion must have shown, because she clarified in an irritated tone. “You and Larryn moved him. Which end of this teenager did you hold?”
“Oh! The head.” Arathiel looked down and tapped his chest where the teenager’s blood had stained his shirt. “His head was in a terrible state.”
“You went outside on the night of the winter solstice with nothing else but a light shirt?”
Arathiel tensed. He had been so focused on involving Larryn in his story and telling it right, he’d forgotten how little he wore. Certainly nothing warm. He pressed his lips together.
“Yeah … I was in too much of a hurry. Didn’t think of it before we were halfway to this kid, and then it didn’t seem right to risk his life for a coat.”
“And at no point during this period did you leave Larryn’s side? He was with you at all times?”
Her anger and disbelief seeped through the tightness of her voice. She had wanted different answers. Something to confirm her suspicions. Arathiel struggled to maintain a neutral expression even though her frustration relieved him. He might do it—he might get through this without
giving everyone away, leading the Shelter’s heart into prison and destroying Hasryan’s last chance.
“Not until I left to fetch a healer,” he said, careful not to mention the Dathirii either. Perhaps he ought to push for another topic. He allowed himself a little frown. “Lieutenant, can I ask what this is about?”
“You can ask.” With a wry smile, she proceeded to ignore the question. “How long have you known Larryn, Cal, or Hasryan?”
There it was. Hasryan’s name had finally entered the conversation. Arathiel tilted his head to the side and met Sharpe’s gaze. Probing to see if he’d lie for them, was she? He smiled. Of course he would, but she couldn’t know what he’d trained for all morning. Sora Sharpe had no way of understanding how much these three friends and the Shelter meant to him now.
“I shared a handful of card games with them. Cal greeted me when I arrived some twenty days ago—he’s the waiter here sometimes. They invited me to join later on, but we haven’t played since Hasryan’s arrest. I do miss it. I don’t get out much otherwise.”
Sharpe had tensed a little at the mention of Hasryan’s arrest. Her dark eyes bore holes into Arathiel as though she could sift through the lies by staring hard enough. She must know they were all lying even if she couldn’t find the crack in it, and Arathiel wondered if she would drag them to an interrogation room anyway. Down here, no one had the power to stop her. After a long silent scrutiny, Sharpe huffed.
“Very well. Thank you for your time, sir.”
Arathiel withheld a sigh of relief. He nodded before opening the door for her, his shoulders squared and his chin raised high. He had nothing to conceal, after all—or so he wanted her to think. As she strode through the doorway, Sharpe turned.
City of Strife Page 28
