City of Strife

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Stay where you are!”

  The running stopped, and a pleading voice rose, very close to him. “I just want to staunch the bleeding! Please, Miss Sharpe, he’s my friend.”

  In the silence that followed, Arathiel forced himself to look at Cal. He was just a few feet away, his hands in the air, watching Sora with a desperate pout. She pressed her lips together.

  “One false move, and I’m arresting you too.”

  “Thank you!”

  Cal threw himself on his knees next to Arathiel and fumbled for something. His half-melted silver coin. How often had Arathiel noticed Cal touch it and wish for luck? His friend placed the burned side over the shoulder wound and began a soft prayer. Arathiel twisted his head to see. He didn’t feel any kind of relief—no more than he felt pain—but the blood flow slowed, and the cut closed itself. Sweat rolled down Cal’s forehead, and he grew pale. Should it be this hard? Arathiel put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

  “Fix the hip and let go,” he said. “As long as I live to get to the guards’ headquarters, I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t go there. Something’s wrong, Arathiel.” Cal’s voice cracked. He moved his melted coin to the hip, and the wound started to heal too. It didn’t last. Cal quickly snatched his hands back, confusion plain on his face. “This is wrong. Please don’t go to prison. You can’t.”

  Sharpe cleared her throat. “He is coming. You’re lucky I don’t drag everyone in with him.”

  “It’s okay, Cal,” Arathiel added. “I’ve been in worse places than a cell.”

  Cal leaned back. He seemed on the verge of crying, and from the bags under his eyes, Arathiel doubted he’d had much sleep since the solstice. They had all been convinced Hasryan would die. Arathiel picked up his friend’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Thank you for the card games, Cal, and the warm welcome. Keep being nice to strangers like that.”

  “Don’t talk like this is goodbye!”

  “Yeah, don’t.” Larryn had come up behind Cal, his bow slung over his back. He put a hand on Cal’s head and stared at Arathiel. “You say you’re a noble. Politics will save your ass.”

  Arathiel wasn’t so certain. They would keep him alive, yes, but freeing Hasryan had set half the city against him, if not more. He shrugged, not too concerned about his fate. Not as long as Hasryan was free. The very thought brought him a strange elation. He should have died in the Well, yet instead had come out with this new body and extra time in their world. How long had Arathiel hung to the side, a spectre watching events unfold, uncertain he deserved to participate? Not anymore. In a single strike, he had changed the course of Isandor’s politics and announced his return. It wouldn’t be possible to hide anymore. He had jumped in with both feet, given history a big shove in one direction, and proved he still had a role to play. Maybe he didn’t feel pain or touch or warmth, but he was very much a part of this world, and he had saved a friend.

  Guards started to surround them, none of them bringing good news for Sora. Hasryan was gone. They were still searching, but every new soldier arriving did so empty-handed. Sharpe gave all three of them a long glare, then took her handcuffs out.

  “Don’t think you’ve won yet,” she said.

  She pulled Arathiel to his feet. Two men came to hold him up, and the cuffs clipped around his wrists—locked him into this new, exposed life. Cal and Larryn had been forced to back away, but he nodded in their direction. He managed to smile despite his dizziness and the fog over his brain. Sora was right, of course. Even if he lived through the day, he would face endless interrogations about Hasryan and himself. It didn’t matter. He’d finally made his peace with the strange turn his life had taken and decided to make the most of it. Arathiel couldn’t remember when he had last been so content.

  ✵

  After Arathiel’s arrest, Larryn hung around Carrington’s Square for a while longer. He hoped and dreaded to hear more about Hasryan, but the guards and nobles slowly cleared out, and soon it became obvious he wouldn’t learn more. Cal had stayed by his side. Neither said anything to the other. Larryn couldn’t bear to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Memories of the winter solstice resurfaced without fail, bringing bitter anger and shame with them. A petty part of him wished Cal hadn’t been right—that he’d made a mistake by saving Nevian—and he tried to stomp it out. He didn’t want Hasryan dead just to prove a point. Not in the least. He just hated being wrong. More than that, he hated how he’d hurt Cal. Being right might have made it a sliver better.

  Maybe.

  Larryn doubted it. He glanced at his hand, flexed the fingers with which he had punched his friend. Nothing could make that better. And the truth was, Larryn wasn’t sure he wanted to yet. Anger still overrode his guilt whenever he looked Cal’s way. He needed more time. Still, when it became obvious there would be no more news, Larryn turned toward him.

  “C’mon. Let me get you a meal.”

  Hope passed through Cal’s expression, and Larryn avoided his gaze. They headed out in silence, and he wondered if it seemed as heavy to Cal as it was to him. They used to talk all the time. Mostly Cal, really, but Larryn contributed a rant or two every now and then. Yet they made it all the way to Larryn’s kitchens without a word. He let Cal in after a slight hesitation, and dragged a chair inside for him to sit down. Cal climbed into it, then stared at Larryn, his legs dangling. Expecting something.

  Larryn cleared his throat, hurried to his pantry, and retrieved several types of cheese from it. He had bought so many yesterday, and it would be delusional not to admit guilt had played a big part in it. He had no intention of cooking with this much cheese, and everyone knew of Cal’s undying love for it. He picked a solid block of Windfoot from Aberah Lake’s southern shore—Cal’s favourite—and handed it to the halfling without looking at him.

  “You bought me cheese.”

  Cal’s dumbfounded tone wasn’t as pleased as Larryn would have hoped. His throat thick, he picked up the small wheel of Kessyr, a softer goat cheese from Mehr. Cal took it, but his frown deepened.

  “You know I can’t refuse cheese.”

  With a faint smile, Larryn rubbed the back of his neck and showed him the last type: a strange, squeaky cheese that roasted rather than melted when put above fire. He lit his oven then gathered a few herbs and a slice of cold pork. He didn’t have time to launch into a full-blown meal, but he had promised Cal something, and even this bit of cooking soothed him.

  “So what are you trying to do?” Cal asked. “You think if you just feed me, I’ll forget?”

  Larryn stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut. He was glad he hadn’t been looking at Cal. “No. I don’t want you to forget.” Shit. That’s not what he meant. Larryn groaned and slapped the pork onto a plate. “I’m still angry.”

  “Of course you are.”

  The hard edge in Cal’s tone surprised Larryn. Cal had always softened the blows and accepted his spikes of anger. It had been like no matter how often he lashed out in frustration, Cal endured to help. But Larryn had obviously crossed a line now, and he knew that, and he wished he could make it a bit better somehow.

  “Cal, I—”

  “Don’t bother.” Cal’s shuddering breath wrung Larryn’s insides. “I can tell you’re trying, but if you’re not going to utter the words ‘I’m sorry’ in the next, like, five minutes? I’m leaving. With the cheese. And you will still owe me a meal.”

  Larryn couldn’t help a slight smile. Of course he would take the cheese. Then again, he deserved it. Larryn turned around and forced himself to meet his gaze. He had to apologize. He knew he shouldn’t have hit Cal. It didn’t matter how furious and confused and terrified he’d been for Hasryan. Larryn licked his lips, but the words refused to leave his throat. They bundled together, glued inside by his latent anger, until only a low growl came out. Larryn’s fists clenched, and he whirled around before he could see too much of the tears filling Cal’s eyes.

  “I thought so,” Cal said.
“Some other day, maybe. I’ll spend some time at my place instead of here and only return to check on Nevian. It’ll do the two of us a lot of good.”

  Larryn heard him climb off the chair. He gripped the counter. “Wait.” The familiar shuffle of Cal’s steps stopped. One last chance. “I …” Larryn tried to swallow, but he was parched. “I shouldn’t have. Hit you, I mean.”

  “Yeah. You shouldn’t have.”

  No need to turn around to notice the obvious efforts Cal made to keep his voice steady. A short silence followed—his friend waiting for more—then the kitchens’ door creaked. Larryn stared at the beginning of a meal in front of him, his excuse for a conversation with Cal. What was the point when he couldn’t even utter two simple words? It shouldn’t be this hard! But they wouldn’t come out, and somehow Larryn doubted they would anytime soon. Not as long as Hasryan was out there somewhere, and Larryn wasn’t certain he was safe.

  With a final grunt, Larryn shoved the pork away and turned to his pantry. He had half the Lower City to feed and no more time to waste on Cal’s hurt feelings. He started bringing out the ingredients he needed for the evening’s meal, doing his best to ignore the nagging voice in his head, repeating over and over that when it came to Cal’s friendship, ‘waste’ was not a term he should ever use.

  Hasryan pushed the door closed with the tip of his foot. The moment it clicked into place, he leaned against it and slid to the floor. Immense relief spread from his stomach, climbing up his throat in slow waves until Hasryan had to choke down a sob. He brought his legs close and wished his hands weren’t cuffed behind his back, to cling to his pants while he calmed himself. Instead, he let his fingers slide through the entrance’s rough rug. The door muffled sounds from outside, and after the crowd’s cheers and the guards’ whistles, the silence was stifling. The whole city would probably hear the one thought always cycling to the front of his mind.

  He was alive.

  He could still feel the rope against his neck, and his legs ached from the rough landing with Arathiel. His frantic heart hurt, as if a hand squeezed it hard, but he was alive. Someone—not Brune, not Cal, not even Larryn—had cared enough to save him. It didn’t matter if Arathiel had this weird inhuman pain resistance going on. He had more heart than anyone else Hasryan had trusted so far. More guts, too. What a dangerous rescue plan. Hasryan hoped he had managed to escape on his broken ankle, but he would know soon enough. Arathiel would be coming here once he’d shaken everybody off his trail. If they were lucky.

  Hasryan forced himself to take a few deep breaths and calm down. The crushing relief from unexpected freedom started giving way to the realization he wasn’t safe yet. He needed to get a grip and scout the place.

  Hasryan raised his head and scanned the area. He sat in a large room that encompassed both a kitchen and a cozy living room. The sweet scent of baked goods hung in the air. Hasryan used the door to prop himself up on his feet. He couldn’t wait to get these manacles off. Perhaps there would be a tool in the kitchen. He moved toward the dark counter, and when his eyes fell over a plate of small cookies, his mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten anything but dull oatmeal mixture since his arrest. They looked delicious—round and golden and soft. Hasryan pressed his lips together. Grabbing one would prove a challenge with his hands behind his back, and now was not the time to devour cookies. The entire city guard hunted for him, and he was relaxing in some part of the Dathirii Tower. He had to stay focused.

  He moved through the kitchen, registering every detail he could: the tea pot at the ready, the numerous glass jugs of dried herbs behind it, the flowery apron on a hook, and the open notepad filled with slick handwriting. Hasryan crouched and blew on the edge of the pad to flick through the pages. He stopped to read every now and then but only found grocery lists and recipes. Nothing special there. One page had a series of names with a specific dish next to each of them. Some had been crossed off, though there was no apparent pattern to it. Hasryan wished he could get more information on whoever lived here. A woman, probably. He straightened up and moved to the living room, the scent of cookies trailing behind him.

  A two-seater rested against the wall next to a thin and tall bookshelf. Almost every tome seemed handmade, all in different sizes and shapes. Most had no titles on the spine, but those which did were recipe books. Hasryan’s mouth quirked into a smile. Whoever lived here loved cooking, that was for sure. Was that why he had immediately concluded it was a woman? Sora would be angry with him.

  As Hasryan imagined the scolding Sharpe would give him, voices reached him from a nearby room. Hasryan froze and turned to the only closed door. He suspected it led into the Dathirii Tower itself. On the other side, two servants discussed what remained to be cleaned. The conversation grew louder at first, then faded away as they walked past. Hasryan swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had to free his hands. As long as he was cuffed, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself.

  If the owner really was a woman—and a noble, too—she might have jewels he could use. A solid brooch pin would let him work at the manacles, at least. His lock-picking skills didn’t come anywhere near Larryn’s, but it seemed better to try than to sit still and stare at the plate of golden cookies, waiting for his fate. He made for the third door in the apartments, pushed it open, and smiled at the flower pattern on the bed’s blanket. Definitely a woman. She even had a desk with her makeup and perfume on it, along with a small mirror. His gaze settled on the box with an ornate pattern on the lid. Jewelry, for sure.

  He should grab everything and disappear. Leave this place before the owner returned, before Hasryan discovered Arathiel had betrayed him, too. He would have enough money to get by if he escaped Isandor. No ships or caravan would take him, so he would have to manage on his own in the wilds for a while, but if he had survived it at ten years old, he could do it now. He could. He didn’t want to. Hasryan loved people. Just thinking of being alone and shunned again made his throat thick with emotion. He had believed he’d escaped his years of constant vigilance, always putting survival first. He wanted friends he could trust, and the only one he dared put his faith in right now was Arathiel.

  Which didn’t mean he had to wait with his hands cuffed behind his back and nothing to defend himself.

  Hasryan grabbed the jewelry box from behind and up-ended it on the bed. The contents spread on the cover, and he turned about to examine them. The dim afternoon light pierced through thin curtains, making some of the rich apparel shine. Hasryan’s gaze stopped on a sturdy brooch—small enough to fit in his manacles, thick enough not to break. He pushed everything else out of the way with his elbow before patting the bed until he found the brooch. Great. Hasryan moved farther up the bed and out of the jewelry pile, settled on the pillows with his back against the wall, then tried to insert the brooch’s pin in the keyhole. He couldn’t wait to be free.

  The lock-picking tested his patience sorely. The afternoon light grew dimmer as he worked on the lock, wondering how long he would need to break it open. He wished Larryn was around. He would have been done within minutes even without seeing what he was doing. He always said to listen to the sounds. Hasryan didn’t hear a lot more than metal on metal, and his occasional hiss of pain when he pricked his fingers. He dropped the brooch and had to try from the start again, and by the time the manacles clicked open, his arms and shoulders hurt from the awkward position. He sighed, slipped out of the hold, and brought his hands before him. His wrists and fingers tingled as blood rushed back in. At last.

  Hasryan jumped off the bed and made a few large circular movements with his arms, pushing blood into them as he left the bedroom behind. Sunlight’s steep slant gave the kitchen and living room an even cozier appearance. As though he could settle down on one of those sofas, eat the cookies and drink tea, and time would stop and let him breathe. Hasryan shook his head. Illusions. He knew better than to get caught in such fantasies. First, he needed a weapon. He recalled the knives on the counter and headed there. The cookies almost glowed
in the afternoon light, and it seemed to Hasryan that their scent had only grown more powerful. Everything was so peaceful, so welcoming—like the entire room demanded his surrender.

  “Never,” he whispered.

  He drew the biggest knife from the rack and tested its edge. Blood pricked at the tip of his finger. Sharp. Good. Now to get away from those damnable cookies. Hasryan strode out of the kitchen and back to the door leading outside. She might arrive from the entrance to the tower itself, but he could sprint across. He crouched, ready. His confidence had returned with his free hands. He didn’t need help. He could survive by himself, had done so for almost two decades now. No matter who came through that door, he could handle it.

  The doorknob next to him turned. Hasryan jumped to his feet, holding his breath and tightening his grip on the knife’s handle. A lithe form appeared as the door opened, dark against the afternoon sun. Hasryan leaped forward, grabbed the front of her dress, and pulled her in. He kicked the door closed as he pushed her against the wall and pressed the knife at her throat.

  “Oh!”

  The small exclamation came from an old lady, grey hair threaded with golden strands. She kept it tied in a bun, making her pointed ears quite obvious. Hasryan searched his memory for an elderly Dathirii, but he had never paid the family much attention. He knew to watch out for a young, brown-haired elf with wits—their spy—but that was it.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  She held her hands up and froze, but she smiled despite the precarious position. “Good evening, Hasryan.”

  Hasryan’s throat tightened. Of course she knew who he was. The entire city did. She would try to sound soft and harmless, to catch him off-guard, but she couldn’t fool him. Age didn’t matter. Everyone could be vicious. Even an old elven lady who had obviously baked cookies the previous night. Even Arathiel’s supposed trusted friends.