“What’s going on?”
She seemed confused by his question and tilted her head to the side. Her pale blue eyes studied him, and Hasryan’s heart quickened under the intense gaze, stripping away layer after layer of invisible protection to look inside him. He didn’t want her to! A shiver ran up his arms, and he pressed the knife harder, his hands shaking.
“Tell me!”
His voice cracked. Hasryan wished it hadn’t, wished he was in perfect control of himself. But the more this lady stared at him, silent but smiling, the bigger his panic grew. It swirled inside, reminding him of the rope around his neck, of the dozens of guards wanting to kill him, of all the people who had betrayed his trust before. The slow confidence he’d built as he freed his wrists evaporated. He needed to know if he was safe here, but how could he ever be sure? The elven lady started lowering her hand, and his heart jumped.
“No, I told you not to move!”
She did anyway. She had to realize he had killed before—cold, calculated murder. Yet she set her wrinkled fingers on the blade, her gaze never leaving his, and pushed it down. Hasryan could feel it slice a little into her old skin, but she neither grimaced nor flinched. He let her, caught up in her clear eyes and her sad determination.
“This is my home, and you are my guest. You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid! I just don’t trust you.”
He would sound more convincing if he could stop shaking. His palms were sweaty, his muscles tight—ready to spring, as if faced with a dangerous threat.
“Distrust is only one facet of fear.” She tried to meet his gaze again as she pushed the knife farther away, but Hasryan lowered it. He noticed the thin red lines on her fingers. “I think you’ve had plenty of opportunities to experience that already.”
Despite her soft voice, the comment was a punch in his stomach. How often had people refused to talk to him? To give him their names, or to offer him a contract? Even when he’d been a kid, others had avoided him on sight. They said they didn’t trust a stranger, but he’d known they feared the dark elf. Stories of dark elven raids outside of their walled lands had burned a specific imagery in their mind: ruthless, merciless killers. That was his heritage: he had ‘do not trust me’ painted on his skin.
He had learned to use the reputation early on. As a kid, he would hang in the dark to appear taller and utter threats, forcing people to give up their gold and food. They believed him to be a monster, and he played with that to get what he wanted. In time, he had also rolled with their other expectation: that he could kill without remorse. All dark elves were assassins, weren’t they? Why not? He needed the money, he loved the challenge, and when he received a contract, someone was trusting him to get a job done. Brune had even trusted him to help build her mercenary empire.
Or so he’d thought.
Trust could be an illusion. Sometimes, it appeared as a magical dagger gift to seal a solid and blooming relationship. He had to make sure he would not be tricked again, that Arathiel wasn’t laying another trap for him.
“What do you want?”
“Right now, I admit I’d love to sit down with a cup of tea. I had a rough day.” She smoothed out the front of her dress where Hasryan had held her. “So did you, but I suspect that’s not what your question meant.”
“It’s not.” Her calm disturbed him. What was he supposed to do about it? Usually when he put a dagger at someone’s throat, they tended to become some variation of terrified.
“I’m not expecting anything in return,” she said. “I do hope you will stay with me until we can dig deeper into Brune’s game, but I will not force you to.” She reached for his shoulder, but Hasryan jerked out of the way and stepped back. She withdrew her hand with a sad smile. “I doubt I’ll have the resources to help you while the Myrians assault us. You should know, however, that these quarters will always remain safe for you. There are even magical protections against divination spells.”
Hasryan reeled, his mind unable to accept what it heard. They had stepped right into the realm of impossibilities. “Anyone could walk in here and find me. Someone will, and it’ll be over again, and none of this makes sense. You don’t know me. You don’t have any reasons to help me. I was about to be hanged for murder, and I put a knife at your throat!”
He shouldn’t jump from one fear to another, and he didn’t make much sense either, but he couldn’t settle on what bothered him the most. He tightened his grip on the knife, raising it. The old woman’s gaze flickered in its direction, and she licked her lower lip. So she was scared after all.
“You had a rope around your throat a few hours ago. I understand your impulse to defend yourself.” She touched her small cut. “Arathiel believes you were framed, and I find it difficult to see anyone get hanged. I will shamelessly admit that I agreed to this for Arathiel’s sake more than for yours, though that might change.”
“Arathiel …”
“Yes, Arathiel.” She decided to ignore his knife and moved toward the kitchen. As she continued to talk, she filled the kettle with water, lit a fire and put it over to boil. “I tried to convince him to reintegrate into his family, to tell them he was alive despite all odds. Nothing got to him. He was scared, I think, because of how different he is today. Then one night, he knocks at my door and asks help to free you, even if it meant—and these are his words—showing everyone what he’d become. I couldn’t refuse. I had promised support if he wanted it, and I wouldn’t go back on my word.”
“I just played cards with him.”
She stared at him for a moment, then soft laughter escaped her lips. The sound stirred a comforting warmth at the bottom of Hasryan’s stomach. It was so at odds with these past two weeks.
“Really? He must have enjoyed it a lot, then.”
“Cal let him win the first few times to make sure he would stay.”
Hasryan remembered sitting at the table, exchanging dumbfounded glances with Larryn as their friend lost one play after the other with exaggerated exclamations, shoving the copper pieces toward Arathiel. They’d joked about it, telling Cal that his divine help had found a new favourite, but they all knew he did it on purpose. He’d done it with Hasryan too, two years before. The memory felt like claws digging in his heart, and he pushed it away. Mulling over broken friendships would only hurt him. He had to think of himself and this weird position he’d landed in.
“So this isn’t about me. Not really.”
“It wasn’t,” she said. “If I can help you too, I will.”
“What is going on with Arathiel? He smashed his ankle and snapped it right back without flinching!” Hasryan moved closer to the counter and set down the knife. He didn’t understand why, but knowing she hid him for Arathiel’s sake eased his doubts. No one wanted to help him, sure, but Arathiel deserved it. “It was scary.”
“I don’t really know.” She selected two glass jars and opened them, throwing some of the dried herbs into her teapot. “I’m not sure Arathiel himself understands. From what I gathered, most of his senses have been altered, including his ability to feel pain.”
“That’s so weird.” Hasryan ran a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have implied that to Arathiel, though. “I hope he’s all right. I thought he’d be here by now.”
“So did I.” Camilla heaved a sigh. “He asked not to worry about him, to protect you instead. I can do both at once.”
“I don’t want you to take care of me.” A bitter laugh escaped his lips. How ridiculous. He wasn’t a child to be adopted. “This might be normal to you, but my life isn’t made of sweet tea and cookies. It’s all murder and betrayal. I can’t stay here. I don’t even know your name!”
“I’m Lady Camilla Dathirii, but you can keep it short. Camilla is enough, or even Aunt Camilla if you prefer.”
Aunt Camilla. She wanted him to call her ‘Aunt’. He must not have heard that right. Or it was a joke. She toyed with him because she could sense how desperate he was for a solid re
lationship.
“I’m not going to call you anything.”
He strode to the two-seater and dropped into it. Camilla’s lips pinched in a disappointed frown, but before she could comment, the kettle whistled. She poured hot water into her prepared tea, set the top on, and brought both the pot and small cups to the table of the living room. Hasryan followed her movements without a word. When she returned with the plate of cookies and set it down next to the tea, however, his stomach grumbled. Camilla looked up.
“Eat one,” she said. “You seem famished.”
“I’m not. They give you food in prison.”
He didn’t want to eat her cookies. They had been taunting him all afternoon, daring him to dig in and accept her hospitality. If he ate one, he surrendered to Camilla—and he didn’t trust her enough yet. Even if she didn’t sell him back to the guards, she could do worse. Perhaps she meant to give him to House Allastam so they could do whatever they pleased with him, away from indiscreet eyes. Although … that would be betraying Arathiel. He had to remember she was doing this for him, too.
“If you want to call it food. I doubt it tasted anywhere near as good as these cookies.” She snatched one for herself and sat on the seat opposite Hasryan. “I was up all night baking them. Your execution had me too nervous to sleep.”
“That makes two of us. Why don’t you go rest in your fancy bed and leave me, then?”
Alone, he might manage to sort through his jumbled thoughts and make the right decision. He refused to jump from one prison to another without questioning it. Even if this one had tea and cookies.
“Oh no, not yet.” Camilla poured them two cups, then bit into her cookie. Hasryan stared at her as she ate, wishing she would swallow and explain already. “I asked for a tub of hot water at dusk. They’re great to relieve oneself of filth and stress. I suspected you’d have gathered a lot of these two things while in a cell. So I’ll stay until I can answer the door for you.”
A bath. A hot bath. A luxury he’d only enjoyed once before. Even the Lower City hadn’t put as thick a layer of grime on him as prison had. Something about the cell’s damp ground, the unwashed corners, and the sweaty nights had clung to him. He had to stink, though he no longer smelled it. Camilla hadn’t mentioned it, but the stench alone might give him away from the corridor. Hasryan needed that bath, and if he was going to accept it, why not the tea? Why not the cookies?
“You win.” The words were a disgruntled whisper. “I’ll stay.”
He didn’t know how long yet, but he could stick around until he’d cleaned up at the very least. Besides, he had no better options. The Shelter—no, the entire city—would be under surveillance. He leaned forward and picked the biggest cookie off the plate. He caught the pleased smile on Camilla’s lips as he bit into it, which turned into a chuckle when he couldn’t hold back a satisfied ‘mmm’. The hint of salty butterscotch tickled his taste buds and made him crave more. Larryn could take lessons from these. Camilla poured him some tea as he munched down the rest of his cookie and picked up another. He savoured that one for minutes.
Then he stopped.
Something about those cookies was too good. Too … home-made. Full of care and love. And they had been made for him, after a fashion. She had known he would come and spent her night baking for his arrival. Hasryan brought his legs to him, a sudden rush of sadness climbing into his throat. Camilla had prepared her quarters for him the way you did for honoured guests. He stifled a sob, then clenched his fists. It was just a cookie, damn it! He wasn’t going to cry over a cookie. He wiped his cheeks and tried to ignore how much his hands shook. Five hours ago, he’d had a rope around his neck, and people were cheering for him to be hung. He had thought he would die there in front of everyone. The day’s grand spectacle. Instead, he was sitting in a cozy living room, and the late afternoon sun warmed his back as he stuffed himself with cookies and waited for a hot bath. Comforts offered by an old lady who cared neither for his dark elven blood nor for his crimes. Believing in such a safe haven was too dangerous, but it was just there. In every butterscotch bite, in the sweet aroma of tea, in Camilla’s patient smiles.
Hasryan jumped to his feet. All his emotions threatened to burst, and he didn’t want anyone to see.
“I have to go. Warn me for the bath.”
His cheeks hot with shame, Hasryan strode past her before she could protest. He sprinted to her bedroom and slammed the door behind him, curling on the floor right on the other side. Hasryan didn’t know if he could handle this place. It was too perfect, too much of everything he’d longed for. How could it last? Nothing ever did. Leaving now would hurt less than losing this again. If Arathiel didn’t return tonight, he would have to escape. The taste of butterscotch lingered on his tongue, and Hasryan prayed to every deity out there his friend would come back soon.
Isra’s third attempt to turn her skin into bark fizzled out, her magic evaporating before it could so much as stiffen her arm. She cried out in rage and stomped before positioning herself for another try. Frustration tensed her muscles and tightened her lips, and Jilssan recognized the storm brewing under her staunch refusal to stop. Isra would never have the concentration to finish the spell in her current state.
“Enough,” Jilssan said.
Isra’s shoulders slumped, and she glared at Jilssan. “I can do it! I’ve cast more complicated spells!”
“I know you can, but not today.” Jilssan motioned toward the large elm at the back of their courtyard—the very one Isra had spotted Nevian on. “Why don’t we talk?”
Isra’s anger deflated, and she threw the tree a haunted look. Jilssan knew she’d spent a great deal of last night staring at it. She had watched Isra from a distance, the two of them freezing outside while Varden’s screams rang out of the prisons’ basement. Hard not to empathize with Isra. Jilssan remembered too well how guilty she’d felt betraying her first rival, and throwing him to the wolves. And he had deserved it, unlike Varden.
They moved to the tree, and Isra sat down with a pout. “I don’t see what you want to talk about.”
Jilssan’s eyebrows shot up. “You know.”
She left it at that, certain Isra would come around. She needed time to sort through her feelings and decide what to share and what to keep to herself. Jilssan settled next to her apprentice and leaned back on the solid trunk, closing her eyes. Cold already seeped through her skirt and tights, and the afternoon sun did nothing to warm her. Isandor’s winters always chilled her to the bone, but she suspected the day’s shivers also came from the latest turn of events.
“I miss him,” Isra said.
“Varden?” Jilssan couldn’t believe such words from her. They had never gotten along, to say the least, and even if she felt guilty, she wouldn’t miss him.
“No. Nevian.”
That surprised Jilssan even more. Why would anyone miss Nevian? He never did anything but complain or study, and Isra’s determination to spend time with him had always confused Jilssan. Maybe she was desperate for someone her age, even though Nevian acted decades older than he really was. Still. Nevian’s absence would make the enclave more dangerous. An imprisoned Varden wouldn’t hold Avenazar’s attention forever.
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, lacking more encouraging words.
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t he say anything? I offered him a chance—he knew I’d spotted him! He could have told me the traitor wasn’t Varden.”
“And you would have kept silent?” Jilssan turned to face Isra, worried. “Isra, you see what happened to Varden because he protected Nevian. Don’t make their mistake. Master Avenazar is not an opponent you want to fight.”
“Varden hid a Dathirii,” Isra protested. “It’s not the same.”
“It would have been.” Jilssan picked up Isra’s hand and squeezed it. “Listen to me. You are not responsible for what happened to Nevian and Varden. They made their decisions and put themselves in that position. You did what you had to. It’s not easy
, and you won’t feel better about it anytime soon. But until we have full control of Isandor, we’re stuck here with Master Avenazar. The best we can do is obey and make it through to the other side.”
Water filled Isra’s eyes. She reached for her amber amulet and sniffled. “I hate this city. I wish Father was here.”
What wouldn’t Jilssan give for Master Enezi’s presence, too? His reputation in Myria carried a power even Avenazar would have a hard time ignoring, and his mastery of transmutation spells made him an incredible adversary, should it come to that. “Me too, Isra. Me too.”
No point in daydreaming, however. It didn’t matter how much Isra wished Nevian had survived, or whether Jilssan regretted never having a chance to stop Varden. They would both have been caught, and it would take a miracle to save Varden now.
✵
Diel stood on the balcony outside his rooms, his gaze drifting to the city below. He had thought things would be calmer after today, that the lords of Isandor would put aside their squabbling. This execution, distasteful as it was, should have marked the end of a decade of feuding. Lord Freitz had come to speak with Lord Allastam, a first since Lady Allastam’s murder. Diel had hoped to drum up a desire to collaborate from this new united Isandor. He had to make them see that for all their infighting and competitions, their collective success relied on the city’s status as a major independent trading post. And there was nothing independent about a Myrian Enclave controlling half the Houses sitting around the Golden Table.
His new campaign was only possible thanks to the capture of one assassin. Or rather, his execution.
In less than twenty minutes, Lord Allastam had accused Lord Freitz of orchestrating the dark elf’s escape, and the hostilities were on again, harder even than in the last few years. Freitz had taken personal offence and returned to his tower. Neither man was willing to talk. Diel had sent Yultes to Lord Allastam, praying his step-brother’s glib tongue would smooth out part of the situation. He didn’t have high hopes, not in the current state of their relationship with the Allastams. Even though Diel was convinced Lord Freitz had nothing to do with the sudden escape, reason seldom worked on Lord Allastam. Despite his best efforts, he had no soldiers to include in his Coalition and no House willing to join. Branwen’s return had only cemented their reluctance to get involved. Once again, he needed a new plan.
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