City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  And when he put it that way—when it was his inner strength and Keroth’s support against Avenazar’s evil—Varden had no doubts he would survive.

  ✵

  Branwen hissed as the needle pricked her finger and set her current work down. The faint ripples of pain running up her back distracted her, slowing her work. It would help if she slept more, too, but anxiety and nightmares plagued her nights. Nothing to be done about it, except save Varden. She wouldn’t rest until she knew he was safe.

  At least she was doing something to help. Branwen spread the rough fabric of her project on her workdesk to evaluate its progress. She had an excellent memory for clothes and remembered the outfits worn by Keroth’s acolytes down to the details. Reproducing them was another matter, but Branwen trusted her ability to create an appropriate disguise. She would infiltrate the enclave and get him out, even if she had to do it alone.

  Branwen leaned back, tears blurring her eyes, her hands shaking. She couldn’t remember ever crying so much, but the floodgates had opened during winter solstice, and she’d never found the energy to close them again. Every time her mind wandered back to Varden, she found tears streaming down her cheeks and had to take a moment to wrestle control over herself. It never failed. Except on one occasion.

  Shortly after her return, Diel had called a meeting between several House leaders, to discuss a Coalition between them. He had asked Branwen to share the last ten days with them and reveal the extent of Avenazar’s ruthlessness and plans. Moving about triggered jolting pain along her spine, but she had agreed. Anything to give Varden a chance.

  She had picked an open-back dress for the occasion, one in which she felt absolutely gorgeous. Branwen knew she would need the confidence, and she wanted to expose the ugly purple and yellow pattern of bruises Avenazar had left her. She had hoped they could shock the nobles into action, force into them the realization that they could no longer stand by and watch.

  She should have known better.

  The lords and ladies of Isandor offered Branwen their sympathies and wished her a prompt recovery. They expressed dismay over the state of her back and the violence of Avenazar’s actions, and promptly condemned the use of such brutal force. So far, so good, Branwen had thought, standing in front of the assembled group, her heart swelling with hope. Though they couched their words, their disgust and fear seemed real.

  Then again, one had said, and Branwen immediately understood the excuses would follow. Then again, House Dathirii had provoked the Myrians. Then again, this battle didn’t concern Isandor as a whole. Then again, the fate of Varden Daramond was a matter of internal affairs, and they should not interfere. Then again, if Lord Dathirii had found the soldiers he kept promising, Branwen might never have been hurt, and he could guarantee nothing bad would happen to the other nobles, either.

  Over and over, they told her she would receive no help—and neither would Varden, not from them.

  Diel had stood in silence, growing paler with every rebuttal. Branwen tried to argue, burning off her urge to cry with furious indignation. The soulless bastards didn’t care. About her, about Varden, about Isandor’s future.

  But so be it. She would not wait to act—not for her health to fully return, not for the support of other Houses, not for Diel’s non-existent miracle. Come what may, she would complete her disguise, go back to the Myrian Enclave, and save her friend.

  A crowd would gather long before Sora Sharpe arrived at Carrington Square with Hasryan. She had noticed the flow of residents when heading to the prisons to collect him and delayed as much as she could before escorting him out. More time for the Sapphire Guard to assume their position and less time for attempts to free him. Security measures. That was her excuse. It had nothing to do with lessening Hasryan’s exposure to those ready to cheer at his death.

  Ever since Brune had pushed the blame solely on him, Sora found it hard not to think of Hasryan’s reaction. She couldn’t get his stunned expression out of her mind—how the defiance had drained away, leaving behind a bitter shell. This execution didn’t sit well with her. She scolded herself. He had killed several others aside from Lady Allastam, and whether or not Brune had framed him didn’t matter. The weight in her stomach didn’t move. She knew Hasryan was not the problem. Today’s hanging belonged to the political circus of Isandor, and in the process, they would kill their best source of information on the Crescent Moon’s activities.

  She hated how often the demands of the powerful tied her hands. Lord Allastam and Brune wished to see Hasryan dead, and so he would hang today. Just like a Dathirii protected Larryn, preventing her from a thorough questioning. She could have nailed him for the prison break if she had tried harder, but her superiors had ordered her to back off from ‘Bonebreaker’. They had wanted her both to keep Hasryan imprisoned, and to do nothing against those who had tried to free him.

  Admittedly, she didn’t care about Larryn if he stayed out of her way. A quick investigation of the Shelter revealed how much he helped others around. Sora had bigger targets, people who bypassed laws without breaking a sweat, eating Isandor from inside and ruining lives. But to get to them, she needed to climb through the ranks of Isandor Sapphire Guard, to play their game and forge alliances until no one remained untouchable for her. In a city corrupted to the core, it would prove a long and arduous road—one in which distasteful high-profile executions such as Hasryan’s became a necessity.

  It didn’t alleviate the weight in her stomach as she extracted him from his cell and walked him out of the headquarters. He flinched at the sunlight, and the small movement provoked a ripple of tension in the guards escorting them. As if he could escape against the massive number of troops in place today. As if he had the will to try. Sora doubted it. Prison had hollowed his cheeks and sapped his energy, but his silence weighed on her more than anything. No more quips or smirks. As if he was already dead inside.

  No. Sora pulled her thoughts away from there. He had killed others. People with families and friends, people who had deserved to live. She’d proven that long before Brune intervened, and Hasryan didn’t even deny it. How had she grown attached to such a man? She couldn’t get sentimental over this.

  Sora Sharpe didn’t celebrate another death, but she wouldn’t mourn it either.

  ✵

  Camilla Dathirii could not remember a time when she had enjoyed executions, and she had a few centuries of memories to draw from. Why would anyone delight in watching a man be pushed off a bridge, only to have a noose break his neck or choke him? Putting Carrington’s Square, built in honour of one of Isandor’s founding Houses, to such use was barbaric. Luscious gardens filled the park, which nestled in the middle of the city’s towers, and four elegant arches reached upward, meeting twenty feet above the centre. This central point formed a smaller circle with a hole sufficiently wide to drop a man through. The body would hang high above the statue of Lord Carrington in the middle of the park below and the large hydrangea bushes surrounding it. Part of the crowd often stood right under, amidst the flowers, eager to see this gruesome spectacle from as close as possible.

  Today, however, the ambiance differed from the usual. Commoners packed the gardens and nearby bridges, but no cheers or excited screams came from them. They stared in relative silence, a buzz of hushed conversations drifting up from them. They used to be the loudest crowd, unruly and chaotic, but their enthusiasm had been doused. Camilla studied the group, curious. The poorest huddled with solemn expressions, some even holding black flowers to display their grief. Arathiel had said he’d met Hasryan at a shelter for the homeless, and she imagined these were the patrons who had appreciated him. They had come to pay homage to a comrade, not cheer at his death.

  Unlike the nobles, who wanted to celebrate. They occupied the bridges above Carrington’s Square, which offered a great view of the criminal before he dropped. Members of lesser Houses lined the handful of stairs winding up the surrounding towers, halfway between the gardens and the top of the arch. S
ometimes, these spots were empty, and residents of the Middle City could climb on them to witness executions, but not today. Almost every family of note in Isandor had sent someone to watch, most of them with a bright lily, symbol of a celebration. House Allastam had been granted places close to the central hanging circle, at an angle where the city guards would not block their view. Even young Mia Allastam had come despite her frail health. A light blue scarf wound around her neck and over her pale blond hair, and she wore fur-lined gloves to protect herself from the cold.

  Diel stood behind her, his golden hair whipping in the wind. He had chosen somber attire, held no flowers, and wasn’t smiling. This was an obligation, nothing more. Only a few Dathirii had come: Kellian to congratulate Miss Sharpe, Hellion and his friends—all relatives for whom Camilla bore no love—and Yultes. They chatted with other ambitious nobles who had gathered to praise House Allastam for finally solving the mystery behind Lady Allastam’s murder. Camilla noted Lord Freitz among them. Of everyone assembled, he had the most legitimate reason to rejoice: this arrest had cleared his name of a crime for which House Freitz had suffered Lord Allastam’s bitter wrath. His presence surprised no one, and he even seemed of a mind to talk with Lord Allastam. Perhaps their families could at last start to mend the deep wounds between them.

  The stage was set, she thought, and in the middle of it was their infamous assassin.

  Camilla stood not too far from the guards surrounding the middle circle, and she had an excellent view of the young Hasryan. They had shackled his hands behind him, and three soldiers flanked him. More waited on each bridge spiking out, crossbows at the ready, their gaze never leaving the assassin. The longer Camilla watched, however, the more ridiculous these precautions seemed. Dirt clotted Hasryan’s thick white hair, and his shoulders hunched in defeat. He had scanned the crowd below earlier, but his eyes glazed over everyone, and now he stared at his feet, so close to the drop.

  He seemed so young, yet already broken. Ready to die.

  Her heart clenched. How could he not be? Nobles jeered at him, called for guards to give him the final push early. He had been burdened with one of the city’s most heinous crimes and framed by his boss. Camilla remembered Arathiel’s slow explanation. He had tried so hard to be factual, but he had no proof Hasryan hadn’t done this assassination. He just believed it was all false, and Hasryan mattered enough to draw him out. As Camilla stared at the young man standing above Carrington’s Square, empty eyes set on his feet, she couldn’t help but agree with Arathiel’s assessment. It wasn’t fair for him to die. Criminal or no, she didn’t have the heart to let it happen.

  She spotted Sora Sharpe among the guards close to Hasryan and made her way through the crowd. People gasped and ruffled as officials finished tying their hanging rope to the central circle under Hasryan’s feet. They pulled on it to test the strength, and she knew from experience they would have the noose around Hasryan’s neck within a few minutes. Then they only needed to read the list of his crimes and give him the final nudge. Her pace quickened until she reached the line of city guards behind which Sora stood, holding a heated discussion with one of her superiors. Camilla glanced at the bridges above. She spotted Arathiel, waiting, ready. She wasn’t sure she would ever be. Camilla hadn’t done anything so dangerous in decades, but she couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement in her stomach.

  “Miss Sharpe!” Her call drew Sora’s attention. She excused herself from her current debate and moved closer to Camilla, pushing past the guards. This was perhaps her least favourite part of the plan, but it gave Arathiel an honest chance to reach Hasryan. “I never had the opportunity to congratulate you for—oh!”

  Camilla had extended her hand to shake Sora’s and pulled on her own purse in the process. She dropped it as subtly as possible, and the contents scattered among the guards’ feet as it crashed on the ground. A few objects rolled over the bridge’s edges and fell below, drawing surprised exclamations when they landed on Carrington’s Square’s crowd. The soldiers stepped aside and crouched down, trying to gather what they could. Camilla apologized over and over, then moved through them to help, further disrupting their line. Sora put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s fine, milady, let us. We’ll take care of it.” She squeezed Camilla’s shoulder in reassurance. “Hurry up, boys.”

  A pang of guilt overtook Camilla as she straightened up. She had enjoyed Miss Sharpe’s great wit over several tea conversations, when the investigator and Kellian had collaborated. An arrest as important as Hasryan’s would launch her career. This case mattered, and while Camilla didn’t favour the outcome, tricking Sora felt wrong. Too late now.

  “Thank you, Sora,” she said.

  Then Arathiel’s lithe form landed on the bridge behind them, sword drawn. His feet hit the stone a little hard, but he moved right away. He smacked two guards with the pommel while they spun around, confused and surprised, and parried the first attack. Camilla forced an expression of horror on her face. The chaos of bodies shuffling on the narrow bridge pushed her, and her faked fear became real as she stumbled back. A bad fall to the gardens below would shatter her bones. Sora caught her and helped her up.

  “Quick, Lady Camilla, you ought to get out.”

  Her heart hammered against her chest, and she met Sora’s gaze. Miss Sharpe seemed more concerned about her safety than about the man crashing through the guards behind her, parrying attacks as he advanced toward the centre. Their distraction had worked, but as Camilla’s wrinkled hand squeezed Sora’s, the elven lady wasn’t thrilled about it. She hoped Sora could forgive her if she one day realized it had been intentional.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank you again.”

  Then she was moving back into the crowd, melting away as Arathiel proceeded with their plan.

  ✵

  Arathiel’s fingers dug into his palm as he watched Camilla approach Sora Sharpe. Part of him wished she had no part in this plan, that she had stayed safe in the Dathirii Tower. The other thanked her courage and willingness to help, no matter how little. He had woken up nauseated and exhausted, and although excitement now coursed through his body, Arathiel could barely focus. Everything seemed miles away from him, muffled and withdrawn. He hadn’t felt so isolated from the world since first walking through Isandor’s docks, desperate to smell the stench of fish.

  Today, his numbed senses would be his blessing. Today he stopped hiding, stopped pretending his body worked perfectly, and just accepted it didn’t. Most days brought new struggles, small but draining. Even today, Arathiel was as likely to fail as he was to succeed because of it. What if he failed his landing and flattened himself pathetically on the bridge? What if he couldn’t overpower the guards down there, and they captured him before he reached Hasryan? But he had to try, for Hasryan’s sake and his own. If he stepped back and watched now, Arathiel would always remain a ghost.

  The contents of Camilla’s purse scattered across the bridge below, and so did his thoughts.

  Jump. Now.

  Arathiel’s stride lengthened. He sprinted until his path crossed over Camilla’s bridge, where guards scrambled to kneel and pick up her things. In one fluid movement, he drew his sword out and leaped down.

  His heart slung into his throat, and for a moment it felt like flying—breaking free from the doubts and fears holding him back. In a single jump, he had turned his life around and flung himself in front of everyone’s gaze. Arathiel landed hard. Shouts surrounded him, surprised and dismayed. Elation coursed through him, pushing a grin to his lips. He’d kept his balance and crashed through their line without breaking any bones!

  A handful of soldiers blocked his path to Hasryan. Arathiel slammed his pommel into the two closest soldiers, side-stepped the third’s slash, and advanced through their ranks. He did not feel the impact of his sword stopping the next attack, parrying then striking on instinct. Years of training flowed back through his muscles, and although he needed every inch of focus to break through the numbne
ss of his senses, Arathiel intercepted each slash with ease, countering them with the flat of his blade.

  Even rusted, his skills surpassed these guards’. They outnumbered him and managed superficial cuts, but Arathiel ignored the growing number of wounds and progressed at a steady pace. They didn’t hurt, and with every new stride—every slam of his sword in a guard’s face—he approached Hasryan. It didn’t matter how many wounds he collected in the process. He would get there, and he would save his friend.

  ✵

  Hasryan closed his eyes as guards passed the heavy rope over his head. It weighed on his shoulders, brushing against his throat whenever he moved, a reminder of the fate that awaited him, minutes away. At first, he had searched the crowd for Larryn, Cal, or Brune. Would they come to see him die? Perhaps it was best not to know. What would it change? He wouldn’t be any less alone. Better to forget them, to accept he would die on his own. The guards next to him joked about some party last night, how one of them had jumped into the icy river and almost frozen. Hasryan wished he could trade lives with them, become so accepted that even the most careless stunts would earn him cheers. Not that he regretted how he’d lived his. He’d done a lot of bad things and wouldn’t apologize for any of it. He was who he was.

  The first surprised shriek came from his left. Men grunted from pain, blades clanged with a resounding sound, gasps emerged from the crowd. Hasryan’s heart jumped.

  “Stop him!” nobles screamed. “Push the dark elf off!”

  His eyes snapped open. All but one guard had left his side. Hasryan searched the confused mess of armours for the intruder causing this chaos and froze. Arathiel? Arathiel the would-be friend, the one with whom he’d shared immediate understanding, the potential relationship cut short by an arrest. He parried attacks from all directions with amazing ease, ducked under a blow, and kicked at the guard’s steel-covered legs with his thin leather boots. Hasryan cringed, certain that must have hurt, before recalling the deep cut in Arathiel’s sole on their first meeting. Perhaps it didn’t. A sword cut through Arathiel’s shoulder as he pushed past another guard, but he didn’t wince. He moved on with nothing more than a glance at his new wound, and soon he was out of the thick of soldiers, sprinting toward Hasryan.