City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  Second in command at the Myrian Enclave and a master of transmutations, Jilssan was one of the rare members of the enclave who had chosen this position, so far from the Myrian Empire. Avenazar had been sent to the farthest location the Circle of Mages could think of—a consequence of his erratic and destructive behaviour—and Varden had been deliberately kept apart from the steadfast Isbari community forming around him and his exclusive service. Jilssan, on the other hand, had seen opportunity in the faraway appointment, not punishment. Isandor stood at the intersection of key trading routes, and bringing it into the Empire would lead to rapid and massive expansion eastward. The prestige of such an accomplishment would earn her a place of choice among her peers, and Jilssan’s ambitious designs didn’t balk when faced with years far from Myria’s capital. Two had passed already—two painful years during which they’d discovered the extent of Avenazar’s violence, and through which he’d watched Jilssan walk a fine line between obeying the wizard’s orders, providing advice to him, and never landing either herself or her apprentice on his wrong side. They had had Nevian to draw most of Avenazar’s rage, and now they had Varden. He knew better than to hope for help from her.

  “I would never have guessed a beard would look so good on you,” she declared.

  She flicked her fingers and a soft ball of light appeared above them, its glow gentle and unobtrusive. Varden reached for his face, but stopped halfway there. Either she mocked him, or she still flirted, undeterred by his previous rebuttals or the iced shackles climbing up his wrists. Varden grunted. “Leave me alone.”

  Jilssan, of course, ignored him. She crouched in front of him, cupping his chin and running her thumb over his thick stubble. Varden jerked out of her grasp, deeply unsettled.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  The words escaped as a croaked whisper. Varden hadn’t meant to beg but to demand. As if he had any authority left for the latter. Jilssan leaned back, however, giving him room to breathe. She inspected him—the dirt, the hollow cheeks, the haunted look. Varden could only imagine what she saw under the beard but a weight settled over her shoulders and her voice grew softer, losing its usual playfulness.

  “I will have to. I came to tend to your wounds. Avenazar asked your acolytes if someone wanted to, and they all froze in terror. No one wants to anger him by agreeing. He counted on that, so I said I would.”

  Varden brought his legs closer, curling in on himself. The acolytes at Keroth’s temple had followed his lead because they had no choice, not out of love. Some might have developed a grudging respect for his power, but now that Avenazar had thrown him into a cell, no one would volunteer for his sake. No one, it seemed, except Jilssan.

  “Why would you?”

  She shrugged. “Believe it or not, I figured you’d need it. Avenazar wasn’t serious, but he only laughed when I stepped forward. I took that as permission.” She slid a bag off her shoulder and retrieved a healing kit from it. Varden recognized the tools: bandages, alcohol, needles, the unguent against burns … she had come equipped. She meant this. Warmth stirred inside him, and a solid lump formed in his throat. Varden struggled to contain it. Jilssan was not an ally. She never would be. He looked away and let her talk. “He thinks it’s amusing that I like you. As long as that holds, he’ll allow me to come and mock me. I’ll have to stop if he starts to believe this is more than a passing fancy, however. He’d mark me as dangerous—another potential traitor. I can’t have that.”

  Her passing fancy had involved undesired commentary on his appearance, hands flitting to his back when he’d rather be left alone, and a continuous half-hidden flirt he’d been careful never to encourage.

  “It’s not, though,” he said. “It’s nothing more.”

  “Well, for you, obviously, it can’t even be that much. I saw the sketches. You have talent.” Of course. They’d found his art, stored in the bottom drawer of his desk. Four sketch pads, most containing Isbari portraits or fires. But the last … the second half was filled with naked men, imagined or real. Varden thought of his private drawings of Miles, who had been so shy about his rolls of fat, yet so gentle and beautiful. Even in the dim light, Varden’s flush must be visible under his olive skin, and he gritted his teeth. These images had been meant for them and no one else. He glared at Jilssan, yet her eyes held something strange—not mockery or disgust, but a genuine interest, with a touch of disappointment. “Such a shame for me.”

  Varden snorted. The invasion still burned. “Your gender is the least of all problems in this absurd scenario. You’re …” He trailed off, surprised by his acrid bitterness. So unlike him—or rather, so unlike the him he wanted to preserve. Varden sucked a deep breath in and stilled his anger.

  Jilssan laughed at his sudden silence. “Go on. I’m sure you meant to complete that sentence with kind words such as ‘pragmatic’ or ‘witty.’ Certainly nothing the likes of ‘morally corrupt’ or ‘power hungry.’” Varden froze. He searched for an edge in her laughter, the dangerous tell-tale sign of falseness and thin ice. Finding none unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Jilssan shook her head. “I’m all four, depending on how you measure morality, and I see no reason to change.”

  “Perhaps that’s the biggest problem of all,” Varden countered, too fast to think over his words and withhold them. Jilssan grinned, unfazed. Avenazar would have made him pay every insult, no matter how slim or implied.

  “And thus we once more conclude that we are an impossibility, my interest notwithstanding. My heart breaks from such a surprising rebuke.”

  She brought a hand to her forehead, faking a faint, and Varden smiled. The corners of his mouth turned only a little, too exhausted for more, but he smiled without bitterness, out of real amusement, and felt lighter for it.

  “You’ll have to give me instructions.” Jilssan pointed to the healing kit, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “What did he do?”

  “Destroyed my mind. Left it scattered. You know how he works.”

  “Not truly. I’ve never made the mistake of drawing his ire.” She sighed, pointlessly rummaging through the kit. “He said you might not like fire as much as you used to.”

  Varden’s mouth dried. He had loved sitting cross-legged in the temple’s great brazier, warmth seeping into him without causing harm, wrapping him in a cocoon of serenity. Avenazar had tried to ruin it, pressing a white-hot iron poker against his back to mark the days. Fire had never affected Varden before, and the throbbing pain served as a reminder of the new distance between himself and Keroth. Because of the iced shackles, he told himself. He had not lost faith, and They had not abandoned him. He couldn’t allow himself to believe that.

  “On my back,” he said. He still did not trust Jilssan, and letting her see his burns felt wrong—an admission of weakness. As if he had any strength to hold onto in his current position. As she straightened and walked around, he gritted his teeth. Her low whistle made him wince.

  “Must have hurt.”

  “Still does.” In addition to the constant throb, the tatters of his High Priest ceremonial outfit had stuck into the wound and pulled at it sharply when he moved. She would need to cut the fabric around the burns, leaving what was caught in the blisters. Nothing she could do about that with her meagre means. And no matter how pleasant her earlier tone, Varden didn’t relish the thought of Jilssan removing his clothes. No way around it, however. “You’ll have to cut it,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “Leave what is caught in the burned flesh.”

  Jilssan let out a disgusted huff and tapped her feet to the ground, before returning to the kit. She rummaged through it, handing him the bandages when she found them, and eventually drew a sharp knife out. “Here we go.”

  To his surprise, she worked in silence. Varden shivered every time the cold metal touched his skin, clutching the bandages in his hand harder. She sliced through entire section, exposing his back to the chill air, making him feel more vulnerable with every passing second. Soon he had nothing but his
sleeves and underwear, and he wished he could disappear into the ground. Jilssan stepped away, inspecting his back. He waited, expecting a disagreeable comment of some sort, until she asked him what came next.

  So he explained, his voice steady and neutral, masking his increasing surprise as Jilssan followed his instructions to the letter without wasting time or teasing. She listened to him more now, as he sat curled on a cold cell floor, half-naked and weary to the bone, than she ever had while he had any standing in the Enclave. Did she only feel comfortable with him beaten or broken? He hated her for it, and yet was relieved to finally be treated as more than an object. The conflicting emotions swirled inside, threatening to burst out in laughter and sobs alike. Varden no longer trusted the intense swings in his mood. He didn’t have the energy to keep himself under control.

  He closed his eyes as she finished applying the healing salve—a cool paste that had awakened the searing pain at first, then numbed it down to a distant prickling. It would stave off infections, allowing him to heal faster. If Avenazar didn’t destroy everything. Jilssan bandaged over the cool paste, wrapping the fabric around his chest in a solid hold. She pinned it, then her fingers trailed on his bare shoulder. He froze, panic surging in an instant.

  “You should beg, Varden.” The softness in her voice surprised him. Not a demand, not even advice. It was almost a plea in itself. He caught Jilssan’s gaze, troubled by how affected she seemed. She tried to disguise it, to hide her concern. Maybe she had even convinced herself she didn’t care that much. Yet she’d come, taking the very real risk of angering Avenazar. Asking him to bend and beg.

  “I won’t.”

  “It worked for Nevian. You could buy yourself time and have it a little easier.”

  Varden’s eyebrows shot up. “Nevian’s dead. He endured for years only to smash on a bridge. Don’t tell me it works.”

  She straightened up, slinging the bag back on her shoulder. “Your pride will be your death. You could protect yourself better without it.”

  “No. Pride’s all I have left.” His voice cracked, but he met her gaze without hesitation. “It’s keeping me together. I won’t give it away.”

  She smiled, then, and shook her head. “You really are something else, aren’t you? I wish people like you didn’t die so fast. Maybe my life wouldn’t be so filled with … pragmatism.” She chuckled, but there was no mirth in the sound. With a flick of her hand, Jilssan’s light vanished. “I’ll be back with new clothes.”

  Then she exited the cell, leaving a trail of peppery perfume and a whirlwind of exhausting, conflicting thoughts in Varden. She was not an ally, he reminded himself. Yet he felt so much like himself now. A confused and drained self, certainly, but his brief interaction with Jilssan grounded him. In what others saw, in who he was, and in who he wanted to be. When Avenazar came again, he would remember more than pieces of himself to love; he would know how they fit with one another, and the world around.

  Nevian spent every minute he could sit without nausea studying, ignoring advice to rest and eat. How could he, when so much work awaited him? He had forgotten everything. No matter how hard he stared at the clear and concise words on the page before him, Nevian’s knowledge remained locked away. Taken.

  That had been the point, of course. Avenazar had left no doubts about his goals when he’d caught him sneaking through Isandor, out of the enclave. You will die without the spells you worked so hard for, the wizard had warned. When I’m done, the most basic knowledge of magic will have been wiped from your mind.

  Nevian had survived. A miraculous strike of luck, brought about by a priest of Ren, Master of Luck, whose gender flipped like the two sides of a coin. He had still crashed on a bridge, cracking his skull so hard he’d forgotten more than his spells. Upon waking up, he could barely remember who he was, let alone where.

  Vellien had helped. Their visits always turned out awkward and painful, but they helped. A great deal, even. Nevian didn’t understand what had prompted a Dathirii to come all the way to the deepest stinking pit of the Lower City in order to help a Myrian, especially in the middle of the winter solstice, but he was—inwardly, secretly—thankful. Despite the discipline and hurt involved in healing the broken threads of his mind, he always looked forward to Vellien’s arrival.

  On their first visit after Nevian regained consciousness, Vellien had crouched near him. Neither had talked much: the young elf’s clumsy introduction had been met by a doubtful grunt from Nevian, still bedridden, still more shaken than he’d cared to admit.

  “I came to work,” Vellien had said. “This is your life and your memories. If you don’t want them back, I’ll go. It’s your decision.”

  Of course he wanted them back. Even if it seemed pointless to rebuild what he could before Avenazar returned, Nevian’s stubbornness wouldn’t allow him to stop trying. So he’d given permission—and regretted it shortly after.

  Vellien had been nothing but gentle. They had taken Nevian’s hand, and a soft glow had enveloped their fingers. It had spread up Nevian’s forearm, to his shoulder and head. Then Vellien’s mind had slipped into his, and anguish had crashed into him.

  There was no way around it. Vellien needed to enter in order to study and repair the damage—they had to step on Avenazar’s well-worn paths. And no matter how soft, how benevolent their intervention, Nevian recoiled at the invasion. He had panicked and snatched his hand back, memories flooding in, assaulting him. The details of Avenazar’s abuse had come first, before any real healing, and they left Nevian breathless and shaking. He had wept, then snapped at Vellien when the young elf had offered reassurance, his head hot with bitter shame. Vellien had waited, impassive and patient, and a minute later, Nevian had ordered them to try again. He needed his magic back.

  Acquiring it had required all the discipline in the world, and if Nevian had to use every ounce of his rigid, unrelenting self-control to recover his knowledge, he would.

  And he had. Twice, Vellien had come to the Shelter. Twice, Nevian had let them inside his mind and allowed them to roam and repair freely as he fought his crawling memories of Avenazar’s attacks. Twice, he’d ended up a trembling and exhausted mess. Vellien would watch in silence, their presence more reassuring and respectful than any physical hug. Once Nevian had rested, he had noticed the progress.

  He remembered studying now. First as a kid, sneaking into libraries late at night to learn the very basics of magic from books, then as a young teenager, pooling all his money to buy more advanced copies, and bending over them until the sun rose. Finally as an apprentice, after he’d passed the tests, alongside Master Sauria. Those had been the good days. She had been supportive and kind, and in six months he had learned more than in the previous years combined.

  Master Avenazar had shattered that little oasis of peace and progress. He had killed Sauria over an insignificant dispute, claimed Nevian as his own apprentice, and been sent to Isandor, far from Myria. Instead of learning new spells, Nevian taught himself how to dodge notice, pay respectful obedience, and work through exhaustion. He still recalled the sleepless nights bent over magic tomes trying to figure out rune components, or how protective spells functioned, or anything really. Countless hours of headache-inducing work, candles flickering as he scratched notes for himself and deconstructed complex concepts.

  Nevian remembered the pain and frustration, but the knowledge earned through them had vanished.

  Nevian sighed and forced his attention back to the page. Back to the beginning, to the very basics of magic and the countless hours of studying. He could do it again. Maybe it would be easier this time. His other memories had returned in bursts, sparked by random questions, and Cal had believed the same could happen here. Nevian tried to convince himself of it and focused on the duality of Creation and Destruction.

  All power stemmed from the gods. Once, there had been only one, Sellan, who could bring forth mounds of rock with one hand, then sculpt them down into mountains with the other. But They were never s
atisfied with Their work, building and destroying endlessly, never finishing. Eventually, They brought forth four helpers to control Them—the elemental deities. Sellan’s state continued to deteriorate. They would be struck by a large creative frenzy, filling the world to the brim, using every little space available. Their creations choked, unable to sustain themselves, too tightly packed. But then Sellan’s destructive nature took over, and They annihilated all They had done. They snuffed out all life forms, razed mountains and dried oceans. With time, Their crises became even more violent, shorter and more dangerous. Sellan’s duality did not allow for a stable self, or a stable world.

  The four elemental deities joined their strength, creating the Halkaar—the ever-shifting blade—and splitting Sellan into two discrete beings: Seldare, of Creation, and Lanne, of Destruction. Although the fight between these two opposites didn’t vanish, it became more easily contained, and a viable world had come to pass, on which mortals could live. Some became priests, calling directly upon the six original deities. Others, Thanh of the Phong Peninsula first among them, studied the power coursing around them and the means to harness it.

  A knock interrupted his studies, and Nevian’s head shot up. He glared at the door as though it would make the intruder vanish.

  “Go away, I’m busy.”

  But of course, the door creaked open instead. A young girl stepped inside, no older than ten, with rich brown skin and a crown of curly hair. She held a plate in one hand, her smile so bright it stalled Nevian’s urge to send her away. Not for long, though. He hated being bothered.

  “Has no one taught you the meaning of ‘go away’?”

  “Larryn warned me you’d say that. He also said to ignore it.” She strode across the room to his minuscule desk and set the plate down. His mouth watered at the sight of chicken chunks drowned under a golden sauce and a mountain of vegetables, and his stomach growled at the slightly sweet aroma. Nevian glanced at the girl, and she grinned, obviously quite aware of the quality meal she’d brought in. “I’m Efua, and this is your dinner. Larryn said I’m not to leave until you’re done, because you’ll forget about it if I do.”