“My niece vanished ten days ago.”
“Oh, yes … Lady Camilla told me.” They’d been at the tea house again, and she had kept forgetting what she wanted to order. Branwen had been missing for a few days, and although Camilla had tried to maintain a dynamic and pleasant conversation, she had often lapsed into worried silence. “I thought she’d escaped.”
“She did. Someone kept her safe while over there. He hid her from Master Avenazar and the rest of the enclave, but they discovered it the night she fled. He’s the one who needs help.” Diel Dathirii grew more agitated. He stood from his chair and begun pacing alongside the table. “I glimpsed what Master Avenazar is capable of. I couldn’t even watch him abuse that teenager for more than a few seconds. I stopped him then, and I want to do so again. Too many days have already slipped by.”
“He might be dead.”
Diel shook his head in emphatic denial. “No.”
He didn’t offer a reason for his conviction. Arathiel hesitated. Avenazar had a formidable reputation and was not to be trifled with, and rescuing Hasryan had almost cost Arathiel his life. “How am I supposed to do this? I am not invincible, Diel. I’m only half-dead, and a solid wound can destroy the other half as easily as with anyone else.”
“Half …”
“It’s a manner of speaking.” Arathiel waved his head dismissively. He wished he hadn’t used the expression, but Sora’s words still burned hard in him. Half-alive. “Forget it.”
Diel clearly didn’t want to, but after an insistent stare from Arathiel, he let it go. “You would have help. Branwen would forever resent me if I suggested she should stay home while her friend suffered, and Kellian can provide extra fighting power. Anyone else you’d want to invite would be more than welcome. I’d love to give you more men, but we can barely protect our allies as it is, and I fear it might get worse once Lord Allastam catches wind of this. He wouldn’t dare touch us, but I wouldn’t put it past him to harass local merchants loyal to me. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I weren’t so short-handed.”
Meaning he needed a new pawn in his war. One with peculiar abilities for tasks he couldn’t otherwise accomplish. The magic dead man. Arathiel scoffed, shaking his head. He despised this, and despised that he wouldn’t have the heart to refuse. The moment he had stepped forward and revealed himself, people sought to use him, and he would fall for it. Diel noticed the bitter shift in his mood.
“Arathiel …” Diel’s intimate tone caught his attention. The lord set his hands on the table. “I know I’m asking you to risk everything for a stranger’s life. I am aware of how offensive it is of me to show up here and do this, only because you can withstand hits without flinching. I … I can see it pains you.”
“Why do it, then?”
“A man is being tortured. I’ve learned to make sacrifices.”
A bitter laugh escaped Arathiel’s lips. He pulled his hands back and crossed his arms, rattling the small chains. “You know how to lay a trap. Now if I don’t accept, I’m the jerk who can’t sacrifice his feelings to save someone from a horrible fate.”
Diel’s eyes widened in genuine horror. “That’s not—no! I’m not the one who’d put my life on the line. I’m not the one who endured whatever happened to you. This decision is yours. I’m not trying to tell you what to do with your abilities.” He let himself fall back into the chair with a heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed a lot less confident all of a sudden.
“But you are telling me.”
“I’m sorry. I just want him freed. I promised Branwen I would try everything.” Diel rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice soft. “But I understand. Thank you for your time, Arathiel. Hopefully we will talk again when I have the resources to deal with Brune.”
As he pushed himself back up, Arathiel lunged forward and grabbed his wrist. “I’ll do it.” For Camilla, and for this mysterious stranger who had risked everything for Diel’s niece. “I can’t let this man suffer because you’re insensitive, and I think you knew all along.”
The smile returned to Diel Dathirii’s lips—an admission that he was right—and Arathiel struggled to hold onto his anger. “I did say I knew I could come to you. I trust your judgment. I always have.”
Always. Had Diel Dathirii looked up to him all those decades ago? How strange, to learn he had been appreciated without ever noticing, and that despite the time lost in between, this still counted for something. It offered him an opportunity to save another life. Perhaps that was why he’d managed to pull himself out of the Well—what he was meant to do. Arathiel had failed to save his sister, but he’d rescued Hasryan, and now there could be this stranger. How many lives could he buy with his own, before his luck ran out? Would they be worth it?
“What’s his name?” he asked.
“Varden Daramond.”
Arathiel repeated the name as if tasting it. Diel thanked him again and reiterated his promises for a better cell and potential help against Brune. The lord left the dull interrogation room with renewed confidence, the weight vanished from his shoulders. Arathiel tilted his head to the side, wondering if his assurance would last once the city caught wind of their deal. Perhaps Diel didn’t mind if it meant he was doing the right thing. Camilla had been right about him: although the idealism hadn’t left him, Diel Dathirii was no longer the carefree youth Arathiel had known.
Isra crept down the damp corridor, her heart in a wild frenzy. Her fingers trailed along the cold stone as she moved past empty cells. She shouldn’t be near the prisons. Master Avenazar would be angry if he learned, and she never wanted to endure that. Not after last time, when he’d come to her room and promised horrible punishments if she ever fed him false information again. Her wrist still throbbed from the brief discharge of energy he’d shot into it before Jilssan had stopped him. Isra didn’t want to think about what he would have done if her Master hadn’t been there. Memories of it brought tears to her eyes.
She should have listened to Nevian. He had known she was wrong. Isra wished he had told her. She wouldn’t have said anything! But Nevian had never liked her, or anyone else. He had let her believe the Isbari priest betrayed them by sneaking out of the enclave at night, heading into Isandor, until Master Avenazar had found the truth.
They were both traitors. Now Varden rotted in a cell, and Nevian was dead.
How could Nevian sell information on them like that? He always rambled about rules and obedience and respecting Avenazar’s wishes, no matter how ridiculous. Was that all an elaborate cover? His obsession with precision and laws had seemed genuine, if bizarre. Perhaps because of his constant seriousness, like he had forgotten how to have fun. But eventually, Isra had understood: work must have been the point of his betrayal. Avenazar ruined his studies, forcing Nevian to sneak into the library late at night for a few hours of peace. He must have traded insider knowledge for outside help. Nevian was stubborn, and he had wanted to learn magic. Nothing would have stopped him.
Which meant everything wrong was Avenazar’s fault. If he had taught Nevian anything, the apprentice would have stayed at the enclave, Isra would not have seen him sneak out, and he would be alive. Not that she would ever share that belief with Avenazar. Once, she’d thought being Master Enezi’s daughter would keep her out of trouble. Her father’s influence meant most people worked hard not to anger him. But High Priest Daramond had an entire church behind him, and it hadn’t made Avenazar hesitate at all.
He was Isbari, though. Everyone knew he was Isbari, unlike her. She had kept the secret hidden all her life, following her father’s advice. Isra reached for the amber amulet around her neck, crafted by him when she was still in the cradle, his best attempt to shield her from Myrian hatred. It never left her. Not when she slept, not when she bathed, and especially not when she kissed other girls. The spell shifted her form and maintained it without requiring any energy from her—a perfect object, created by Myria’s most powerful master of transmutation. Her father often said love kept it worki
ng—both his, and her Isbari mother’s.
To everyone around, she was a full-blooded Myrian with a small nose, peachy skin, and pale blond hair. It had been so long since Isra had removed the necklace, she had no idea what else she looked like. She didn’t want to know. She had the luxury of choosing her appearance and wouldn’t waste it. Some days it hurt to think her successes were built on lies, but Isra had become excellent at avoiding such thoughts. Everything was easier for Myrians, simpler and safer. Why wouldn’t she use that if she could?
Being perceived as Myrian might not stave all questions if someone caught her down here, however. What would they think if they saw her with Varden? They might peg her as an ally, become wary of her. She shouldn’t have come. Isra couldn’t help it, though. Not since she’d heard of the sketchbooks hidden in Varden’s desk.
She stopped in front of Varden’s cell and shoved a trembling hand in her satchel. Varden was not a friend, not even an ally, but who else could she talk to? In Myria, girls were meant for boys, never for one another. Varden had defied that, too, and she needed to know how—how he’d found the courage, how he’d kept it secret, how he’d staved the loneliness that haunted her. No one ever talked about these things. Isra was so tired of hiding, of stringing lies together, of avoiding other girls to stay out of trouble, and of projecting the perfect girl she was not. Varden could help. He’d kept his own secret for a really long time, no? Isra touched the amulet at her neck. It always calmed her to sense her father’s power so close. She retrieved a chunk of wood from her bag and readied herself. Even if she brought bread and water, Varden would not welcome her.
Her palms sweaty, Isra placed the wood over the keyhole of Varden’s door. She whispered the words to her spell, reaching for the magic around her and in the material. It swirled, hard to grasp and redirect and control. Isra gritted her teeth—why was this always so difficult?—and she pushed forward. Bending wood shouldn’t pose a problem, and yet she struggled. Isra focused, and energy coursed through the organic structure as she reshaped it, fitting it into the hole one little bit at a time. The wood adopted the form of every nook and cranny until it became a perfect key. She released the slippery magic, unlocked the door, and opened it.
Light slipped inside the cell through the crack, falling upon the Isbari priest. He leaned against the wall, tucked into a tight ball, one arm thrown over his head to protect himself. Grease weighed down his curls, and large bags hung under his eyes. Isra’s throat clenched, and she cast her gaze down. A few days had turned the healthy, confident priest into a skeletal mess. She conjured a little brown glow and let it hover above her head. Its glare would be softer, easier on Varden, allowing her to close the door and block the torchlight.
“High Priest?” she asked.
“Not anymore.” His voice cracked, but he lifted his chin and met her gaze. “Since when do you use my titles anyway?”
“I always have,” she protested, knowing full well she hadn’t.
He mocked her answer with a grunt, and anger spiked through Isra. When Varden wrapped his arms around his legs, however, tightening his small ball, guilt overrode her irritation. She had done this by talking to Avenazar. Isra focused on his strange shackles—ice crawled over his wrists and forearms and melded at the centre, forming a bridge between his arms. They glistened in her brown light, a reminder that while he looked like a famished and broken man, Varden wielded powerful flames and probably hated her. Good thing she’d brought an offering.
“I have water.” She reached inside her bag and lifted out a skin, along with a loaf of bread. “Water and something to eat.”
Varden stared at her. Had his eyes sunk deeper? Isra didn’t remember this scary look on him. Perhaps she ought to leave. He seemed about to attack her.
“Why?” he asked.
An excellent question, that. Avenazar wouldn’t be pleased if he found her feeding his favourite prisoner or talking to him at all. She had needed to come, however, and doing so empty-handed had seemed inhuman. It was kind of her fault he had wound up here.
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“I’ll tell you why.” Anger threaded his tired voice, discreet, almost impossible to hear. “You needed to assuage your guilt. You know I don’t deserve this. You already did, when you watched Avenazar walk down the temple aisle to interrupt the Long Night’s Watch. In your head, this gift makes you a decent person.”
“No!” She clenched the waterskin tighter, frightened by the flat, empty cadence of his words. “I did what I had to. You betrayed us.”
“I was never a part of ‘us.’”
He settled back against the wall and closed his eyes, his frown easing into an exhausted expression. Isra could find nothing to counter that. Isbari didn’t mix with Myrians. They weren’t meant to be together—not in a room, and certainly not in a single person. Varden had always been a bothersome exception, an outsider. He didn’t belong in the upper spheres of Myrian society, and he must have felt it keenly, as she so often did.
“Do you want it or not?” Isra stepped forward, offering the waterskin, her head high.
Varden hesitated, scratched his beard, then nodded. “I’ll take it. Did Jilssan send you?”
“Master Jilssan doesn’t know I’m here.” She wouldn’t approve. Too risky, and what for? Jilssan had urged her not draw Avenazar’s attention again, to obey and stay safe.
Isra crouched next to Varden and offered him the waterskin first, withholding comments on the shake of his hands as he drank. Every sign of his weakness squeezed her insides, reminding her of the pain she had inflicted. Isra tore a bit of bread as he downed the water in large swallows and offered it. He snatched it with such speed, she wondered if Avenazar fed him at all. She avoided staring at him. This cell was about to become even more awkward than it already was.
“I—um … I came for a reason, actually. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
Varden froze mid-bite, his eyebrows shooting up. Hard to explain or not, he waited for her to do so.
“I just … I heard you were really into men.”
She had whispered, unable to say it any louder. The priest crunched down on his bread, taking his time to swallow it. When he spoke, his voice dripped with bitterness. “What of it? Need advice?”
“Of course not!” Isra lifted her chin. “I don’t need your tips. I don’t even care about—about dating!”
Her head spun a little. She’d been half a second away from saying “about men.” Varden’s amused smile told her he wasn’t duped by her cover up.
“I’m sorry, this is …” He laughed, ran a hand over his face. “Is the obnoxious teenager who put me into this cell paying a visit to ask about same-sex relationships, or has Avenazar pushed me over the deep end?”
Isra jumped to her feet. “I’m not obnoxious!”
“I can’t believe it. You came all the way down here with food, water, and some fake guilty look on your pretty Myrian face, but it’s all about you.”
“No! I did feel bad. I still do.” She shoved the rest of the bread on him. The lump in her throat almost stopped another word from coming, but instead they spilled out all at once. “If I hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t be here, and Nevian would be alive! Now everything is terrible, and I miss his grumpy face.”
There was a long stretch of silence during which Varden ate his meagre meal, washing it down with water, his gaze lost somewhere ahead. Isra shuffled, wishing she had kept her emotions in check. Varden snapped back to the present, his expression unreadable.
“Then I apologize for the wrong conclusion.”
He didn’t quite sound like he meant it. Isra pouted. “You should apologize for calling me obnoxious.”
“No.” He laughed, drank again from the water. “Not until you prove you’re not.”
“I’m not!”
“Just ask your questions.”
The brittle playfulness of his tone vanished, turning his words into an attack. Isra stepped back, surprised at
the sudden virulence. No more patience, no more calm. Isra swallowed hard. Avenazar tortured him every day. Of course he wasn’t in a mood for games. She forced herself to settle next to him despite the small needles of fear in her heart.
“How did you keep it a secret for so long? How do you hide something like that?”
“Not by telling the prisoner who has an evil wizard in his mind every single day.”
Isra’s eyes widened, her mouth drying. Her stomach felt like it had taken a plunge to the deepest abyss, only to fling itself back up her throat. She put a hand over her lips. Varden offered the waterskin.
“I’ll do what I can to keep it from him,” he said.
The softness had returned, and Isra found herself wiping tears from her eyes. Avenazar was awful, and she didn’t want him anywhere near her head. It contained too many secrets. If he started to unravel any of them, she would end like Nevian. Or Varden. She didn’t know which would be worse.
“O-okay.” She had given Varden a chance to avenge himself on a silver platter, and he promised to protect her instead. Isra didn’t quite believe it. She drank slowly from the water, then passed it back to him. “You’re nice. Nicer than you should be. Did you have a boyfriend?”
Varden smiled, and it brightened his face, smoothing out the exhausted lines and masking his gauntness. She wondered if he often looked so approachable, and why she’d never noticed, then remembered the sharp exchanges they’d always had. Varden had treated her as an enemy, and she’d replied in kind. Or perhaps she had started it—he seemed willing to open up now.
“I did,” he said, “for several years. His father became suspicious of it, and they moved far from the capital. We risked one last farewell, then never spoke again. That’s how you hide it. You either don’t act on it, or you stop the moment it turns dangerous.”
Isra knew how the distance and absence felt. Her girl was tall, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail, perfect blue eyes, and a tiny round nose Isra liked to poke. She had a fairy’s laugh and kissed like a goddess. They used to walk through her father’s gardens every day, and Isra would pick the most beautiful flowers to slip into her hair. Sometimes she shaped one from whatever she found. Her father had warned her such behaviour could get them killed. They had stopped.
City of Betrayal Page 7
