City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not.” He shrugged, then finished the last of his bread. “That’s all there is to it, though, at least in Myria. You keep it under wraps all your life, like it’s some horrible disease, but it’s not. Never forget that, or you’ll start to hate yourself—to think you’re worthless, that it’s better hidden away. Never let others decide which parts of you are deserving of love.”

  The priest leaned back against the wall and spread out his fingers. His olive skin seemed even darker in Isra’s brown light. She reached for her necklace, fighting against her tears. Could he read minds? Varden meant more than his sexuality here, unknowingly speaking to Isra’s camouflaged Isbari heritage. Did she really think that half of her was worthless? Some days she envied Varden, unafraid to live his truth and love himself. Hiding was easier, and she didn’t draw any pride from it the way Varden did. He would never wear an amulet like hers, but that didn’t make it wrong! Didn’t she have the right to choose how she wanted the world to perceive her? It’s not like she’d ever had access to Isbari spaces before. She didn’t even know her mother. With a deep breath, Isra stood up.

  “Must be hard.”

  None of her turmoil showed through her words. Her voice remained solid, confident. One lie after another. She had trained well, and would always manage to bury it.

  “You never get used to people bringing you down for what you are.” Varden drank more water before handing her the skin. “You learn to endure.”

  She wondered if he was speaking about Avenazar again. It sounded like him, to strike at Varden’s core. “I have to go. I’m … I’m sorry for everything. Thank you.”

  Isra turned away and hurried out of the cell. She thought she heard whispered thanks from him as she locked the door once more and retrieved her key, but she didn’t linger to find out. The priest’s words of resistance stayed with her all the way back to her room.

  Branwen leaned against her chair, booted feet thrown over the table, her large hat concealing both hair and elven ears. She tipped it lower, casting shadows over her features and hoping they would mask the failings in her male contouring. The tavern’s smoky atmosphere helped, as did its reputation. Although they imposed no restrictions on actual gender, The Jostle had always entertained masculine crowds. As long as she didn’t stand out as too feminine, no one would look twice at her—and all she needed was not to be identified as Branwen Dathirii. She drained her ale, scanning the patrons until she spotted her informant worming his way through the crowd. Alton had shaved his head since their last meeting, leaving only short and curly black hair that highlighted his long elven ears, but Branwen could pick him out in any group. They had known each other for decades now, even before his transition, and she would always recognize the sway of his wide girth and his half-amused smirk.

  Branwen raised two fingers as a greeting, then pushed a still-full tankard his way. Alton made a point of glaring at her feet on the table and mumbling, “Must you always forget basic courtesy?” before sitting into a chair. He wore an ugly pale blue shirt criss-crossed with green lines, bright against his dark skin, and as much as she approved of his new haircut, she couldn’t say the same of his outfit choice.

  “Perhaps when you develop a sense of fashion,” she countered, but she did bring her feet down. “What is this monstrosity on your back?”

  “I picked it out just for you. I knew it would make an impression.”

  She laughed, yet even she could hear the frayed exhaustion in her voice. Most of her informants had a great sense of humour and banter to match her own, and she hadn’t realized how much she had missed it. Since returning to the enclave, she had only contacted a few of them—the strict minimum to stay alert to Myrian movements. She didn’t have time to properly revive her network while she dedicated days and nights to designing a Myrian acolyte disguise.

  Alton’s mirth vanished, and he tilted his head to the side. “I have been worried about you.”

  “Others have it harder. You wanted to see me. Anything happening at the Enclave?” She had dragged herself out of the Dathirii Tower for the exclusive opportunity to learn key information about Avenazar’s activities. It shouldn’t have taken such energy out of her, but Branwen had barely slept over the last days. Picking an outfit, applying make-up, and slipping out unseen used to excite her; tonight, it had drained her already-limited pool of energy. She hoped it would be worth it.

  “My Isbari contacts confirm they have been torturing your friend,” Alton answered.

  Branwen clenched her mug, and she leaned forward, her jaw tight. She knew that, but hearing it still sickened her. “What else?”

  Alton spread his arms with an apologetic shrug. “Nothing—not from the Myrians anyway.”

  “So you called me over information I already had,” she said. “I don’t have time for games, Alton. As you just said, they are torturing him. If this is a ploy because you were worried—”

  “I called you because House Allastam is in an uproar, and I think it concerns you.” He set his thick arms on the table and leaned closer to Branwen. “We don’t have a lot of information, but hours after Lord Dathirii left the Sapphire Guard’s Headquarters, they started sending out several letters. Our sources inside said they were addressed to other nobles.”

  “When are they not in an uproar? Lord Allastam thrives on resentment and unjustified attacks on others. Tracking his movements is not why I paid you. It’s the Myrians we’re at war with, and it’s the Myrians who are torturing Varden.”

  “At the moment, you’re not paying me at all,” Alton pointed out. “We both know there’s little left to your coffers. I know my work, Branwen. You’re losing sight of the larger picture.”

  She didn’t want to hear about Allastam’s crusty face—not before Varden was safe, at any rate. How could she keep track of the larger picture when her mind always whirled back to Varden’s torture? She imagined his screams at night, and creative torture ideas plagued her during the day. Even concentrating on her disguises demanded a lot out of her, and she couldn’t bounce ideas off Garith, Vellien, or Camilla as she usually did in such situations—they all had their own problems to deal with.

  “I don’t care. Varden needs me. The rest of House Dathirii can take care of the larger picture.” She pushed her chair back, purposefully rattling it on the floor boards. “I’ll make sure Garith keeps some funds for you.”

  “Branwen, that wasn’t—”

  “I know.” She forced herself to smile at him. Alton was trying his best, and doing it for her sake. She didn’t want to be unfair. “Thank you for the information. I just … I can barely focus on one thing at the moment. That thing needs to be Varden, because I’m the only one who will. Keep doing your job, though. I’ll be in touch.”

  She left Alton at their table, her own tankard still half full. Alcohol wouldn’t do her any good at the moment either way. Branwen pushed through the increasingly thick crowd, eager to return to her quarters and her work. She wondered briefly what her uncle had wanted with Lord Arathiel Brasten but pushed the idea aside. One thing at a time. For now, she had a rescue to plan and execute.

  ✵

  Diel’s happy humming always lightened Jaeger’s heart. It didn’t follow any known song, but simply filled their morning routine with joy, hovering in the air as they dressed. Listening to him, Jaeger could almost forget that their position in the city’s politics had worsened, not improved. But Arathiel had agreed to rescue High Priest Varden Daramond, and Isandor’s Sapphire Guards had allowed his release into House Dathirii’s custody. Diel’s thin plan to save Branwen’s friend would see the light, come what may.

  This, however, did not completely explain why Diel seemed to float. Jaeger smiled and slipped behind his love as the other elf buttoned his doublet. He ran his fingers along the collar and folded it expertly, looking at the other through the mirror. A hundred thirty years ago, Diel had developed strong feelings for Arathiel, who had been House Brasten�
�s weapons master. Nothing had come out of it—Arathiel had barely noticed Diel, instead spending his time with Kellian—but it didn’t surprise Jaeger that this attraction had carried through decades.

  Jaeger couldn’t resist this chance to tease. Diel’s crush on Arathiel had led to their first in-depth discussion of polyamory, and Jaeger knew the morning’s joy came from more than finally having a viable chance to rescue Varden. “I can’t remember the last time I made you sing like this.”

  For a brief instant, Diel froze, then he threw his head back and laughed. “You’re not jealous. I know you better than that, and you know me better, too.”

  “I do.” Jaeger ran his hand over Diel’s shoulder, leaning in closer. How often had Diel fallen in love with another through the decades? His heart shifted that way, expanding to greet the latest amazing person he’d met but never letting go of Jaeger. They had no secrets from one another, and when Diel wished for something more serious, he was the first to know. Jaeger often pushed him to act on it—faced with his love’s unaltered felicity, Jaeger could find no jealousy in himself. The occasional third angle to their relationship enriched his life, too. Even though Jaeger didn’t fall for most of them, he enjoyed the shifts in their dynamic and the special intimacy he often developed with them. Jaeger pulled the golden hair back a little to land a short kiss behind Diel’s ear. “I assume you’ll want to tell Branwen the good news.”

  “Absolutely. I thought we might share breakfast.”

  Diel examined himself once more in the glass, squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath. The last few days had been hard on him, but the bags under his eyes had shrunk overnight. He glanced at the window, where the first sunlight filtered through white curtains. “It’s a bit early, but Aunt Camilla taught me all I need to know about strong teas. If you could go get Branwen? I’ll call someone to help me set the table.”

  The request surprised Jaeger. Diel usually invited his niece and nephew himself while his steward readied everything. Could Diel manage the preparations? Jaeger bit his lip and withheld the question. An informal breakfast with Branwen didn’t require elaborate protocols, and while Diel might not know all the household servants by name, he didn’t need Jaeger to interact with them or get their help. Still, it bothered him that Diel had decided to reverse the roles, until he realized that at this hour, Branwen would be sound asleep and unwilling to wake.

  “I see you are once again leaving me with the arduous task. Should I find armour? Alert Kellian we might have an incident on our hands?”

  Diel pressed his lips together, trying his hardest not to laugh. After a playful shove to Jaeger’s shoulder, he schooled his expression and conjured some poor defence for his niece. “She’s not so terrible. Use the promise of good news as your shield and you’ll be fine.”

  Jaeger grinned and saluted. “There are causes worth dying for,” he said before taking his leave.

  Diel’s laugh followed him through the office and into the corridor, and Jaeger marvelled at how relaxed he was. He missed their brief banter—it vanished when Diel became anxious, and the Myrians spread his patience thin. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but the obvious impact this war had on Jaeger’s domestic life pushed him even more to stop Avenazar quickly and put an end to the stress and loss affecting the family. Jaeger wasn’t sure how they would see this through without the help of other Houses, but he trusted Diel to find a solution, even if it led them down less desirable pathways.

  By the time he reached Branwen’s door, Jaeger’s grin had given way to a more neutral expression. He knocked loudly, ensuring that he’d wake her, and prepared himself for the messy-haired, slightly more aggressive version of their otherwise cheerful spymaster. For all of Jaeger’s gross exaggeration earlier, Diel was right: she wasn’t that terrible. Just a little grumpy at being seen before any of her morning routine was complete. Branwen never came out of her room without a carefully picked dress and matching makeup. The ritual mattered to her, and without it, she didn’t feel ready to face the day.

  To his surprise, she opened almost right after his knock. Even stranger was the perfect bun holding her brown hair, the alertness in her wide eyes, and the fact that she was dressed—a flowing garment with a simple cut but a detailed pattern along the corset.

  “Milady, you’re … awake.”

  Branwen’s clear laugh startled him. She leaned against the frame, one hand still holding the door. “Good morning to you too, Jaeger. To what do I owe the visit?”

  “Did you sleep at all?” Jaeger regretted his question right away. How unprofessional. After the initial shock, he’d picked up on a few more details—how the makeup didn’t quite hide the bags under her eyes, and the small yawn she’d stifled before answering him—and it seemed the most logical conclusion. It still wasn’t his place to ask. “I apologize. It’s none of my business, and I didn’t mean to pry. Lord Dathirii sent me.”

  Her smile vanished, and her eyes darkened. She resented Diel’s lack of immediate action to save Varden, and Jaeger’s stomach squeezed at the change in her expression. He missed Branwen’s incessant and demonstrative love for her uncle. He missed so much of the Dathirii before they had provoked the Myrians. Branwen’s lifeless shrug just added to the pile.

  “You shouldn’t apologize for asking, Jaeger. You’re not a steward to us, you’re family. You know that. And no, I haven’t slept. I can’t, even after so many days.” She opened the door a little wider and motioned for him to enter. “I’ve been working on something.”

  Jaeger followed her inside, and the sewing area drew his gaze. Branwen’s quarters were outfitted with three mannequins, including one carved to her measurements. Sketches and paintings of clothes covered the wall behind them—most were of elaborate dresses, but not all. Disguises and men’s outfits also featured prominently. A round wooden stand flanked them, poles jutting out in all direction. Hundreds of fabrics of all colour and texture buried it under their weight. At the moment, Branwen’s usual image wall was hidden behind drawings of Myrian outfits. Most looked like robes for Keroth’s acolytes, but others were more akin to what Master Avenazar or his apprentice wore. Jaeger studied them a little before shifting his attention to the red—or so he suspected, anyway—orange, cream, and black fabrics she’d laid out near her sewing table. Branwen specialized in disguises, and it wasn’t hard to guess what she had in mind.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Someone has to do something.” She strode to the piles of fabrics and ran her fingers over one. “My back’s feeling great now, and I’m tired of waiting for Uncle’s miracle. Don’t even try to stop me.”

  “I wouldn’t.” Some fights were lost ahead of time, and one look at Branwen’s grim determination told Jaeger this counted as one of them. “You could, however, say that Diel’s miracle is underway, although the use of ‘miracle’ in this instance may prove hyperbolic. There is a solution, risky as it may be, and your uncle would love to discuss it over breakfast.”

  Branwen’s delighted squeal was another one of those sounds that always put Jaeger in a good mood. How fast her attitude had changed! Branwen might have prepared her own plan, but she clearly had never given up hope Diel would come through. She clapped her hands, then grabbed Jaeger’s wrist. “Let’s go. I want to hear it now!”

  And just like that, she was pulling him through the Dathirii Tower, running toward her uncle’s quarters. Relief untwisted Jaeger’s stomach. He hated when Diel fought with the closest members of his family, and Branwen’s enthusiasm washed his worry away. She’d never really lost her faith in him, even faced with the limits of his power. He stayed a few steps back as she burst through the office door. Diel was placing the forks near three full plates and barely had time to lift his head before she sprang into his arms and buried her face in his neck. Diel squeezed her tight, his gaze meeting Jaeger’s over her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” he told his niece.

  She nodded without pulling back, then whispered
broken thanks. Jaeger didn’t need to see to understand she was crying. Lord Arathiel Brasten hadn’t stepped into the Dathirii tower yet, but as he watched Diel and Branwen’s embrace, Jaeger already knew freeing him would be worth every subsequent problem.

  Over the course of the last two weeks, Yultes Dathirii had spent almost as much time in the Allastam Tower as in his own. People used to greet him with a smile, some even stopping to ask for news or trade tidings. As House Dathirii primary liaison with Lord Allastam and his family, Yultes had become a regular fixture. He knew everyone who mattered by name, maintained agreeable relationships with them, and facilitated dealings between members of their respective Houses. It was an art—a delicate balance between personal interactions, business opportunities, and the constant tempering of Diel’s incessant flares of ethical conundrums.

  It had gotten more difficult recently. The smiles had stiffened, then turned into outright scowls. Instead of greeting him, Allastam nobles huffed and avoided his gaze. The tension between the head of their House and Diel had trickled into the rest of the family, but today it achieved a new height. News of Lord Dathirii’s visit with Arathiel and its purpose had reached Lord Allastam. Yultes waited for his audience, his stomach in knots, when Lord Allastam rushed out of his lush gardens and brutally moved their meeting forward. His stormy eyes found Yultes, and he pointed behind himself with his cane. “Get your bony elven ass in there, and pray you have enough honey on that tongue of yours to keep you safe.”

  Safe. Yultes rose with diligence, trying not to scramble. His mind had scattered at the threat. He had known without a doubt what had provoked Lord Allastam, and he’d yet to find convincing arguments to weather the hurricane Diel had stirred. Lord Allastam might have aged quickly—his gnarly hands clutched a cane, his shoulders hunched, and his hair greyed past his temples despite being in his early fifties—but he hadn’t lost an ounce of wit, arrogance, or ambition. When he’d taken the mantle of Head of the House, the Allastams had trailed far in second place, well behind House Lorn in influence. Now, both families tied for first place, and Lord Allastam had crushed several houses on his climb to the top. Dread filled Yultes as he followed the powerful noble down the cobblestone pathway, under overgrown trees with dark blue leaves. How often had he pleaded for Diel not to provoke Lord Allastam and make their family a target? But why would Diel listen to Yultes’ advice when he could champion a criminal and set the entire city against them?