“You don’t seem like you belong here. If something keeps you hidden and you need help, you can come to me.” She even offered a smile with her proposal, though it didn’t last. “And if you remember any strange behaviour from Larryn while you were with him yesterday, I would like to know.”
Arathiel’s insides twisted. He didn’t belong. A single interview with Sharpe, and she could already tell as much. He rubbed his forearm, digging his thumb in hard enough to feel it, wishing she had said nothing of the sort. But she was also wrong. He might always be the odd one, whether in the Lower City or among other nobles, but he no longer intended to hide. She would have a solid surprise in two days. He returned her brief smile.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Sharpe. I will keep that in mind.”
Sharpe wished him a good day and hurried down the corridor. Arathiel had an urge to run to Larryn and make sure they had their story right, but he didn’t trust his hearing. He waited until well after the sound of Sharpe’s boots had vanished to slip out of his room, then headed toward the kitchens. Larryn spent most of his days there, even more so when he had strong feelings to manage. After last night’s failed attempt, Arathiel didn’t doubt the Shelter’s owner would busy himself cooking enough food to last the week.
✵
Countless stories circulated around the Shelter about Larryn throwing out people who dared to enter his kitchens without knocking, but Arathiel pushed open the door and strode in without a pause. He needed to talk with him whether he liked it or not. The room stretched before him, long and narrow, with wide counters on each side and a strong fire at the end. A large pot rested over the billowing flames, and Larryn stirred the mixture. Fatigue and disappointment hunched his shoulders, but he spun as the door closed with a creak. Drops of hot stew splattered the walls around from the sudden movement. Larryn ignored them, glaring at Arathiel, his head slightly turned to the side.
“Get out of my kitchen.”
Arathiel stopped short. The bitter anger in Larryn’s voice took him by surprise. “We need to talk first. Lieutenant Sora Sharpe was just in my room, asking questions about my whereabouts last night.”
“Don’t mind her.” He was clutching his spoon so hard his knuckles had turned white. “She’s looking for new crimes to pin on Hasryan and build her career.”
Arathiel met Larryn’s gaze. Was he not even aware of what Sharpe wanted? “I don’t think Hasryan was her target this time.”
“Are you saying I should also prepare to be arrested on false charges?” Larryn leaned against his counter with a mirthless smirk. “How grand.”
Arathiel moved closer, trying to decipher Larryn’s mind. Cal had broken down from the stress yesterday, and Hasryan’s upcoming execution was bound to affect Larryn just as much. Add the Shelter’s upkeep and a failed prison break to his load, and he couldn’t be in a good state.
“They wouldn’t be false, though,” Arathiel said. “Did you intend to use me as a cover story and send her to me? Because next time, I’d appreciate some warning. I told her you were with us when we saved the teenager. I said Cal came to the Shelter panicked, talked to me, and I fetched you. We went together and carried him back—I had the head, you the feet—and then I left again. You’re safe for about two hours, starting at midnight. Please tell me that covers most of your prison break and matches your story.”
Larryn’s eyes widened when Arathiel mentioned the prison break. “How did you—?”
“Know? Cal told me.” Arathiel rubbed his face, amazed at what he was hearing. “So you believed I had no idea? You risked that I would cover your ass and lie to an investigator without a clue of what I thought of your illegal expedition?”
Larryn set the spoon down on the counter and pushed himself off. “Yeah, I did. People lie to the guards all the time around here. That’s what we do. We have each other’s backs, no questions asked.” A flame lit in Larryn’s eyes, and he strode up to Arathiel. “But you’re right. Wasn’t very bright of me to include you like this.”
It took all of Arathiel’s willpower not to back away. Every one of Larryn’s muscles seemed taut, ready to spring. He had always been quick to anger and react, but this was different. Worse. Neither Cal nor Hasryan could defuse his building rage and bitterness with a simple joke. Instead it swirled, on the very edge of being unleashed, and Arathiel was the closest target.
“I don’t get you.” Larryn tapped Arathiel’s chest with his twisted finger, pushing hard enough for Arathiel to feel. “You’re not one of us. You never were.” Larryn scoffed. “You sent a noble—a Dathirii, of all the shitheads out there—down to my Shelter to heal that kid. I can’t believe you acted all poor and downtrodden on me. Ask your rich ass friends for help next time. You sure are more like them if you can just profit from this place without second guessing yourself.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” Larryn shoved him, then his hands curled into fists. He looked as though he wanted Arathiel to fight back. “Vacate your room before the evening is out. I can fit three kids on your bed, and they can’t ask pretentious Upper City residents to house them.”
Arathiel’s mouth went dry. He needed two more days in the Shelter. He didn’t want to involve Camilla in this more than she already was. She risked a lot on his account, and the harder it became to see the link between her and Arathiel, the better it’d be for everyone.
“I’m not …” No point in arguing. Arathiel squeezed his eyes shut, wrestling with his feelings. “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere, not anymore, not since I left the city a hundred thirty years ago. Let’s just make sure we all have the same story for Sharpe, and I’ll be gone.”
Larryn scoffed. “Yeah, whatever. I heard you the first time. Cal arrived at midnight, and I grabbed the feet, and so on.”
“His leg was broken,” Arathiel said. “Make sure you mention that. And he’s a tall teenager, with short blond hair.”
“I’ll visit him. Once that elf noble isn’t stinking up my Shelter anymore.” Larryn shot Arathiel a very meaningful gaze. “With any luck, all the undesirables will have vanished by sunset.”
The implied insult hurt more than any real punch could have. Arathiel gritted his teeth together. “I get it. I’m gone. Never discussing any of this again. Let’s hope you don’t wind up in prison because you were too angry at me to work out the details properly. You don’t want to leave Cal with the cooking.”
Cal’s horrible cooking skills had been a frequent topic of mockery during their games. He apparently had a knack for burning eggs to a crisp. Larryn stifled a bitter laugh and shook his head.
“You don’t want to leave Cal in charge of anything,” Larryn said.
“He saved a life last night.”
Larryn turned away and returned to his stew. He stared into it, his voice falling to a whisper. “And sacrificed another.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. Now leave.”
Arathiel held back a sigh. He wanted to tell Larryn not to worry about Hasryan, that there were other ways than a prison break, but he didn’t dare. Larryn and Cal would be the first suspected of helping him in this, and he would rather keep them in the dark. Besides, the tightness in Larryn’s voice and the clench in his jaw told Arathiel this argument had already happened between him and Cal, and it hadn’t gone well.
“I’m sorry I tricked you,” Arathiel said. “It wasn’t my intention. I’m glad I can at least have your back on this matter, as a thank you.”
Larryn’s only answer was a small grunt. Arathiel decided he would get no better than that small acknowledgment and left the kitchens. He returned to his room to pack what little he owned right away. He could sleep in the forest for a night or two. The cold wouldn’t affect him if he could avoid frostbite, at least. As Arathiel wrapped his handheld mirror in a dirty cloth, he caught sight of his white hair, and his heart squeezed. This was him now. He had to accept that. But Sharpe and Larryn had bot
h agreed he didn’t belong. Arathiel felt like the world was pushing him back, telling him to stay out of this matter, to linger on the fringe and never participate. Not anymore. In two days, he would be leaping back into Isandor’s politics whether the city wanted him to or not.
Larryn didn’t leave his kitchens until late afternoon. He didn’t dare, not with his anger still simmering, ready to explode at the first person to provoke him. His thoughts whirled, a hurricane of frustration and regrets with Hasryan at its centre. Miserable Hasryan, alone in his cell, condemned. Curse it all, why had Larryn fled so fast? He should have stayed. Even with the lies, he should have stood by his friend and freed him. Who else could have? He’d been Hasryan’s last chance, and he’d wasted it by letting his anger and fear take over. The possibility of returning to jail—of shackles around his wrists and boots crunching his fingers into hard ground—had frozen his mind. It didn’t seem fair to be cooking safely in the Shelter while his friend prepared to die, but there was nothing else he could do now. They would never sneak into the headquarters a second time. Hasryan was doomed, and Larryn never wanted to see Cal’s face again. The Halfies Trio was broken.
All for a Myrian who had fallen off a bridge, splitting his skull and shattering Larryn’s friendship with Cal. Larryn stared at door number seven, his hands curled into fists. As much as he tried to remind himself this wasn’t the Myrian’s fault, he couldn’t contain his bitterness. Couldn’t he have smashed his head an hour later? Cal would call it a fated encounter, saying Ren had timed the fall and didn’t want him to die. But as always, it seemed luck was not on Larryn’s side, and now he had a wounded stranger to watch over.
Larryn turned the doorknob and entered without knocking before his willingness to have a peaceful talk with this Myrian ended. His gaze went straight to the bed to rest upon the teenager. One of his long legs dangled over the side, out of proportion with the apprentice’s height, as was so often the case with boys his age. He had a tuft of down-like blond hair, and sleep smoothed his otherwise squarish features. Looking at him now, Larryn realized the boy couldn’t be all that old. Cal had said he was a teenager, but the information settled in Larryn’s mind. He hadn’t been listening, not really.
This kid didn’t deserve his rage. Someone had tried to kill him, pushed him off a bridge. Last night might have been as enjoyable as sloshing shit all over his clothes, but Larryn refused to unleash his pent-up anger on a wounded teenager. He cleared his throat, loud enough to wake him. The Myrian jolted up, wide-eyed, tucking his lanky limbs into a tight ball. Larryn recognized the terror in his gaze—how often had he sprung to his feet after being shaken awake, fists curled and ready to fight?
“Hey, hey,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t know that’d scare you. You’re all right. You’re safe.”
The teenager raised a hand to his mouth, leaned over the bedside, and vomited. Not a lot, as his stomach must have been almost empty, but Larryn winced at the retching sound. The bitter smell overcame the Lower City’s latent stench right away. The boy groaned, wiped his mouth, then flopped back to the bed.
“Thanks for provoking that,” he said.
“I’ll clean it, don’t worry.” Larryn had seen worse than a puddle of vomit. Once you’d found yourself lying in a pool of shit and piss, half-conscious from a thorough beating, a little puke didn’t seem so bad. “I’m Larryn.”
“The owner.”
“Yeah.”
He studied Larryn in silence. After a moment, his tongue made a small clack of disapproval.
“You’re too young to be the owner.”
“Look who’s talking! You’re just a teenager.”
“And you’re not?”
“Not anymore.” No one needed to know it hadn’t been a month since he’d turned twenty. Besides, the birthday evening seemed so long ago now, so impossibly serene. He’d never have one of those rooftops chats with Hasryan again. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Again?” Nevian propped himself on an elbow. “What is it with you people and questions? I answered a billion of them this morning. Can’t you just talk with one another?”
“No.” Larryn had considered reaching out to Cal, but he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. “I can tell you’re from the Myrian Enclave. What’s your name, and can you go back there?”
“Nevian.” He scoffed, then stared straight ahead. “I can return if I want a brutal and painful death, perhaps. And when they learn I survived, they will come for me. It won’t be pretty.”
Larryn wondered if they would attack the Shelter, too. Was Nevian nothing but problems waiting to happen? That would be just like Cal, to dump more trouble on his shoulders. “So you have nowhere to go. Any money or means to earn some?”
Nevian’s sickly shade of green turned even paler as he shook his head. Did this bother him more than being hunted? He wouldn’t be the first to struggle with helplessness. Larryn sighed. A part of him had come looking for an excuse to throw Nevian out, to get back at him for causing Cal’s lateness. He couldn’t do that, though. He would never dump another kid on the streets.
“So you’re now a homeless teenager too sick to stay on your feet. I guess you qualify for this place.”
“I’m not homeless.” The distinct disgust in Nevian’s tone made Larryn’s hair stand on end. “I’m a young wizard. I can work, I’m serious and disciplined, and I’d never waste entire days burning my gold on alcohol and loitering.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Larryn voice dripped with acid. What revolting shit had he just heard? “You’re right, Nevian. You’re nothing like the rest of us. We know what it’s like to struggle every day for our most basic needs, and we’re grateful for what protection, food, and warmth this place provides. You, however, are just an asshole.” Larryn sneered and moved closer to the bed. “Lucky you, though, you’re an asshole who has no home and no income. You are homeless, but you’ll never have to live through the shit the others do because you smashed onto the right bridge at the right time. I don’t throw people out, not when they have nothing else. If you ever say anything like that again, though, I’ll make an exception for your ass and boot it out with great pleasure. Those good-for-nothing folk you just trashed? They are my people, and this Shelter is dedicated to them. You don’t get to profit from this place and talk shit about them. Is that clear?”
Nevian had stiffened as Larryn neared the bed, leaning as far back as he could, shifting his right arm away again. Controlled fear. Larryn stayed a safe distance from him, hoping it would help. Threatening a physical hit was not the goal, but he needed Nevian to understand he wouldn’t accept words like these.
“Now, this once-homeless kid”—Larryn tapped his own chest—“is going to clean up your vomit and bring you something to eat. Why don’t you use the time to rest and think about how wrong you are?” This time, Nevian scowled and seemed about to protest. Larryn hushed him. “Let it sink in first.”
He left Nevian in his bed, not caring in the least if the apprentice hated him. This was his Shelter. He made the rules, and he intended to keep the place safe. Enough people spat on street folk every day already. Nevian would have to change his mind or endure their presence and learn to shut his mouth.
✵
Varden stepped into his cell and collapsed to the ground.
How had he even managed to walk from Avenazar’s torture room to his new home? He didn’t remember dragging himself but knew only that he had, somehow, through sheer willpower. Guards could flank him all they wanted. He refused to let them carry him. Not until he couldn’t stand any longer.
Not that this tiny defiance would last. Varden shivered, the stone’s cold seeping through his ruined garb. They had taken away all torches from the corridor, all sources of fire and warmth. Even after the Long Night had ended, he had stayed cut off from Keroth. Severed from Their power and wisdom, from the comfort of Their presence nearby. Or perhaps he simply no longer felt the Firelord—perhaps They had abandoned him.
<
br /> No. Varden pushed the idea away. He couldn’t let himself go down that road. He needed to think straight, to consider his position. If only he could …
Hours of torture had turned his brain into wet logs, and Varden no longer managed to strike any kind of fire from it. He curled up, unable to feel anything past the pain radiating from his back and the exhaustion in his confused mind.
Avenazar had rifled through his entire life, leaving no memory untouched. Nothing was sacred to him. Not his parents’ death, not Miles and their time together, not Varden’s peaceful meditation, sitting in Keroth’s brazier. Certainly not anything concerning Branwen and Nevian. He tainted it all, forcing Varden to relive his past in flashes, jumping back and forth depending on Avenazar’s interest. By the time the wizard’s crushing presence left his mind, Varden was completely disoriented, unsure he’d escaped his memories. Even now, his most solid grip on reality was the notable absence of Avenazar’s snide comments and the horrible needling pain across his shoulder blade.
Varden doubted Avenazar had meant to ground him when he’d materialized a fire poker in his hands. To mark the passage of days, he had said. Because prisoners always lose track. Avenazar had pinched the poker’s tip, and the metal had glowed red, then white. Varden knew too well what had followed, but his mind slid over it, blocking the searing agony. One Avenazar would have no trouble inflicting upon him again, whether through memories or another strike.
This was his life now, and he was terrified. How long could he withstand Avenazar’s torture before he lost track of himself? How many times could he hop through his past before he no longer knew what had happened when and how these experiences shaped who he was? He couldn’t allow this. What else did he have, if not himself? He refused to surrender it, to let anyone twist it. He had held true and helped Branwen and Nevian despite the risk. Now he would endure, test his resilience, and trust in Keroth’s will and his own self-love.
City of Strife Page 29
