He forced the words past the lump in his throat and moved to the door leading outside, stopping only to grab a hooded cloak from the wardrobe. He’d spent so much of the last days in sullen silence, doing his best to avoid communication with the elven lady. Any form of relationship was too risky. He didn’t think he could endure another let down, like Cal’s absence or Larryn’s turnabout. Better to be a little rude and keep his distance. Yet the desire to explain himself and please her grew with every passing day, and Hasryan wondered if it didn’t scare him even more than a rope around his neck.
✵
Freezing rain had fallen during the night, icing over Isandor’s bridges. Hasryan kept his cowl down and his knees bent for balance as he followed Camilla into the city. He was glad for the curtain of heavy snow, obscuring sight and muffling his footsteps. Hasryan knew himself too remarkable to melt into a crowd—obsidian skin and thick white hair contrasted even with the various shades of brown common in Allorian folks. When he needed to go unnoticed, he tended to dash around the smaller bridges, sometimes leaping from one to another or climbing down the towers’ walls. Everything was far too slippery today, however, forcing him to stick close to Camilla and hope for the best.
The elven lady maintained a brisk pace despite the conditions. A stylized beige hat kept the snow out of her hair, curled on one side with violet flowers spilling from the cup, and she carried a matching bag. She hummed a soft melody as they progressed through the city, and despite knowing it changed nothing none of the ridiculous risks of this escapade, it appeased Hasryan’s nerves—which in turn made him angry at himself. It was just a song from an old lady! He couldn’t allow these things to lower his guard.
When Camilla stopped in front of a door in the Middle City, Hasryan eased out a sigh. He might have enjoyed the muffling weather if his life hadn’t been on the line. An aged voice called for them to enter, and Lady Camilla pushed the door open. Hasryan slipped in after her, tiny knots tying his stomach as he realized it might not be safer inside at all.
Esmera sat in a swinging chair in the middle of her living room, knitting needles on her lap. An almost complete scarf flowed down along her small legs and to the ground. Her sinewy body couldn’t measure more than five feet, and the massive chair made her seem minuscule. Pale clumps of frizzy hair framed a sharp, wrinkled face, and moles spread across her brown skin. Most remarkable were her eyes, however. Or rather, the deep grey stone covering them, emerging from Esmera’s temples as if fused with them and making her effectively blind.
Hasryan’s mouth turned to ashes, although only in part because of the shocking sight. Its familiarity freaked him out more than anything. The first time he’d met Brune, almost a dozen years ago in Nal-Gresh, she had used this very tactic on a rival mercenary.
Common enemies, Camilla had said.
“You’re late,” Esmera declared, her voice a rattling of bones.
Camilla smiled at the reproach. “I brought company.”
Hasryan wanted to vanish through the floor. The longer he stared at Esmera, the more he recognized her. His instincts flared in alarm—they had met before, he knew, in less than friendly circumstances. His mind scrambled to guess when and how, and he stepped back, ready to bolt.
“Oh yes, I heard the sneaky boots. Can he talk? Did no one ever teach him basic courtesy?”
Camilla laughed, but a glance at Hasryan killed her mirth. His panic must have shown. He swallowed hard, and although he feared she’d recognize his voice, he blurted out, “I can speak just fine!”
“Then it’s about time you did, young man.” Esmera’s fingers wrapped around her needles with a frown. “Why don’t you introduce yourself like a proper guest?”
“Sorry. I’m …” He stopped. He couldn’t give his real name! Not with so much of Isandor after his head, and even less to someone he might have antagonized in the past. He needed a replacement, and fast. Something credible, something natural. “Larryn.”
Great. Esmera probably hadn’t heard of Larryn’s Shelter, but Hasryan couldn’t have picked a more painful reminder of the friends he’d lost. He closed his eyes with an internal swear—not that he could do anything about it now.
“Well, welcome to my tiny home, Larryn. Come on in and keep me entertained while my servant cleans.”
This drew another sharp laugh from Camilla. She gathered a bucket, some clothes, soap, and something weird with an acrid smell. Hasryan watched Camilla redo her hair, and only now noticed her robes were made of thick linen rather than silk. She pumped water into her bucket, and Hasryan looked away. It felt too strange. She was Lady Camilla Dathirii, matriarch of the noble elven house, probably the oldest citizen in Isandor … and she was preparing to clean someone else’s home. Ex-girlfriend or not, the complete contradiction with expected roles set him even further on edge. He wished he had something normal to help him get his bearings, yet Camilla always managed to both surprise him and reassure him. He reminded himself he’d never seen a servant in Camilla’s quarters except to bring the hot water for baths. Perhaps she enjoyed tidying up her place and others’.
“What are you waiting for?” Esmera asked, snapping him out of his contemplation. “I don’t have all day.”
“Yeah, you do, actually.” Hasryan dragged a chair closer and sat down, fighting his wary nerves every step of the way. Esmera’s constant scolding might have intimidated others, but Hasryan was too used to disparaging comments to let it get to him. He could deal with that as long as she didn’t recognize him. “I’m afraid your wits form a dangerous weapon. You’re grounded here for the day.”
She laughed, a rich cackle that emerged from the deepest part of her stomach. Hasryan loved the sound immediately, and it washed away a chunk of his stress. It had something honest and vicious that contrasted with Lady Camilla’s soft and enveloping chuckles. One of these ladies gave you tea and cookies while the other insulted you for acts of standard politeness. Dealing with both of them together would become an experience in constant destabilization.
“So apart from reminding me what a useless sack of bones I am, what are you skilled at?”
Thoughts of his past crimes flitted through Hasryan’s mind, and he almost blurted out, ‘sneaking and killing.’ The words stuck in his throat, and he tried to chase them and focus on innocuous conversation. Camilla couldn’t fill the silence while he raked his brain for an answer. She’d vanished into a nearby room, leaving him to his own devices. What else was he good at, though? Losing friends? His presence often bothered others, and Hasryan enjoyed playing with their unwarranted fear. Which almost always led to the same dangerous conclusion.
“I’m good at getting in trouble,” he said.
“Are you?” She leaned forward, tilting her head so she could hear him better, as Larryn so often did. The familiarity sent spikes of longing through Hasryan. Her tone lacked any surprise, and worry needled at him. “Sounds like you’ll have a lot of stories to tell today, then.”
Hasryan hesitated. He wished she would talk instead, so he could place her. He’d worked with Brune in Isandor for a decade but hadn’t often dealt with older folks. Brewing, Camilla had said. And it hit him like a thunderclap. She’d had deep-set, rich brown eyes, nimble fingers manipulating vials and herbs with ease. Only a few stragglers had resisted the Crescent Moon’s swift rise through Isandor’s lower life anymore. The Blue Lips, everyone had called her shop, and if Esmera had still worn the makeup that had earned her the name, Hasryan would have known instantly. Brune had sent him to threaten her, hoping to scare the old poison maker into submission. She’d cackled at him back then, too. If the stones in her eye sockets were any indication, Brune hadn’t taken kindly to her refusal.
Hasryan let out a slow breath. He had pressed a blade—the very magical dagger over which Brune had him arrested and framed for Lady Allastam’s murder—to Esmera’s throat. She must not have fond memories of him. Now that he knew, however, he felt calmer, more in control. A lot of his adventures might involve screwing up early a
ssassinations or the subsequent escape, but Hasryan found one more innocuous.
“I guess there were those pies I stole as a kid.” He’d been starving and desperate to eat. Anything could have done the trick, but he’d rarely smelled something so delicious. “I think I was nine?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the one who knows.”
“Let’s say nine.” Time had grown fuzzy in those years, and Hasryan hadn’t cared to count. Old enough to have killed, old enough not to bother. He’d traced back the years in his life only later, after he’d caught Brune’s attention. “There was this cook—I think they were in training? Because they put three to four pies to cool on the windowsill every day. So I stole them. My stomach hurt, and I figured no one ate that many. They wouldn’t be missed. How naive.”
Deadly mistakes had riddled his first years alone, and it was a miracle Hasryan had survived. He’d stopped counting the narrow escapes and last-minute bids for freedom. Inexperience and gullibility had almost killed his child self several times, but his age had also saved him. People had constantly underestimated him. No one expected a kid to stab them, dark elven ancestry or not.
“Pie thievery is a horrible crime,” Esmera said, with a touch of sarcasm. “I assume you were punished.”
“The cook poisoned the next batch. I became so nauseous I couldn’t stand. Then the first hallucinations came. I didn’t understand, had no concepts of figments of imagination. Shadow monsters crawled into my vision, and I tried to outrun them, only to fall and vomit and roll over. I clung to the pie and hid and ate more, stuffing myself. My mother laughed in the background, and I kept eating. I was so hungry! And maybe if I ate enough I would feel better, and the deep chants ringing in my ears would vanish.” He still heard them, loud and clear, from so many tall figures around him, towering, blocking out the sun and any hope of love. His mother no longer laughed. Hasryan fell silent—or had he been silent for a while now? Esmera stared at him, and Camilla hovered at the edge of the room. Reflexively, he reached for his neck and the thin scar running across it. Hasryan’s history of pressing daggers at others’ throats had started with one at his own. He coughed. “Anyway. They weren’t fun hallucinations.”
“Clever cook, though.”
Hasryan forced himself to chuckle, as if mirth could evaporate the cold sweat on his back. He should’ve picked another story, but he had half-forgotten the consequences of his poisoning until he’d reached them. At least Esmera didn’t press the issue, latching instead on the excellent administration of poison.
“I learned a valuable lesson on the dangers of routine.”
“Seems like you’ve been getting into trouble for a long time,” Esmera said.
“Yeah. Lots of misadventures.”
His gaze met Camilla’s—that’s how he had called the scars, a few days ago, standing in underwear in her living room. She offered a sad smile, but no comment. None now, anyway. The piercing blue eyes held all the worry and determination in the world, and he wouldn’t escape her. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
“Then by all means,” Esmera said, “tell me more.”
Hasryan launched into another tale, choosing a far less personal one. Esmera stopped him every now and then, most often to pinpoint the exact moment he’d messed up. It amused her, how his urge to sling witty retorts frequently screwed him over. The way she laughed, however, he could guess she’d had her own share of problems due to talking back. Encouraged, Hasryan revealed some of his worst mistakes, and before long, he’d told a dozen short anecdotes, his voice punctuated by the tapping of knitting needles. When Camilla finished her work, she sat with them and listened with intent. Esmera noticed she no longer moved about the house and frowned.
“Over already? I can go and spill something if I must.”
“Please don’t,” Camilla said with a laugh. “We can stay.”
Esmera dismissed her with a gesture then put her hand on Hasryan’s. He raised his head, surprised at the precision of her movement.
“There’s still a story I’d like to hear.” Before she even continued, Hasryan detected a new sharpness in her tone, a hard edge that doomed him. “The one about intimidating old alchemists for a less-than-loyal boss.”
“You say that like it worked.” His answer sprang out, shattering any caution, any chance at denial. His own daring stunned him. Hasryan froze, his ears ringing, until Esmera’s laughter broke his trance. “That’s how you reacted back then, too. You laughed.”
“What else should I have done? You walked in there like the very sight of you should make me quake and piss myself.” She snorted. “Should’ve seen yourself, kid.”
Most people did freak out when he strode into a room. She hadn’t—not back then, and not today. When had she recognized him? Hasryan reviewed most of the afternoon, trying to pinpoint a shift in her attitude, but he found nothing. Had she known from the very start and waited to trap him? His mouth dried. He could outrun them, escape. The steady click of her needles together kept him rooted to his chair, and his voice hushed to meet their softness.
“I killed people,” he said. “I would have killed you if that had been my order. You should have been scared.”
The needles stopped. Esmera turned his way, lowering her work. “Perhaps, but it’s not in my nature. I have an underdeveloped flight reflex, much like you. I prefer to stay and fight, even if it’s just through words. Even when the price is high.”
At first, Hasryan didn’t understand why she would say “like you.” He bailed out all the time, unable to summon the courage to approach others. And yet he’d come here, hadn’t he? He had stayed even after recognizing Esmera, despite risking her anger. And he refused to flee Isandor itself and start his life over, alone once more, with no guarantee he’d fare any better.
“Brune made you pay, didn’t she? I know that technique.”
Esmera nodded. “She won. I could have kept going, learning to brew without my eyes, serving customers in secret or even with my shop still open. A part of me wanted to fight, out of pride and stubbornness, to the bitter end if need be. I restrained myself. Too old for such things, perhaps.” She scoffed, and Hasryan knew she didn’t believe her own words. “Mostly, I didn’t think it was worth it. Let Brune rule as a queen over the Lower City. I’d had my good years, and I wanted to escape it—to do something new! So I called my favourite servant girl, got settled up here, and learned to knit. It’s fun, you should try it.”
“I don’t plan on retiring,” Hasryan replied with half a laugh. Perhaps he should. Wouldn’t it be simpler? Let Brune win and leave the city. But he couldn’t give up the life he’d had here yet.
“Your choice,” she said, and she obviously agreed with it. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? You decide what you do, just as I chose to retire and learn different skills. I hope you kick her ass.”
Hasryan smirked. He couldn’t—Brune wielded magic with terrifying ease, and she could always sense him behind her—but he basked in the heart-warming dream. “Pay me in scarves and mitts, and I just might.”
Esmera cackled, wrinkles lightening as a grin broke her face. She finished a row, and as she started the next, she began casting off her work. “Half before and half after, isn’t it? Your payment is incoming.”
Hasryan stared at the moving needles, slipping in and out of the thread, and with every new stitch off the long wooden stick, his chest tightened a little more. It had been a joke. Did Esmera ...? He turned to Camilla, and her soft smile was as unrevealing as Brune’s grimaces.
“I didn’t mean it seriously,” he said.
“Take the scarf anyway.” Her job finished, she reached for the scissors behind them and snapped the last thread off. “I’ve got tons of them, and I don’t go out that much.”
Esmera flung it at Hasryan without waiting for his answer. He ran his fingers over the thick wool, in awe at the neat rows and the rich red colour. He’d never owned anything so comfy. Hasryan twisted it around his fingers with a happy sigh.
“Thank you.” He shouldn’t trust her. Experience had taught him not to rely on his instincts. Brune had betrayed him; Larryn had abandoned him. Clearly, he was a bad judge of character. Why wouldn’t this old enemy sell him out? Yet Hasryan refused to give up, to assume the worst and leave Isandor. That, too, would be letting Brune win. Hasryan stood, his throat thick with emotion. “We have to go, but I’ll return. Someday, I’ll be back with more stories.”
“They all say that, my boy.”
“I will.” A smirk split his face. “Whether or not you’re still alive by then is up to you, though.”
She laughed, and Hasryan allowed the cackle to warm his heart one last time. He and Camilla headed for the door, and as they stepped out, Esmera called out to him.
“You’d better get in plenty of trouble!”
Hasryan chuckled. A cold wind had risen, and it blew through the opening, snowflakes spinning around him and into the room. “Don’t worry. There will always be more where that came from.”
Unless, of course, one of the several folks intent on killing him finally succeeded. That prospect didn’t scare him as much anymore. He still would’ve chosen this. Chosen to trust Camilla and Esmera, chosen to stay in his city—his home—and believe he could find his place in Isandor again.
✵
Hasryan shed the classy winter cloak as soon as he stepped inside, flinging it on a nearby chair before removing his boots. Camilla had tried to initiate several conversations on their way back, but he had cut all of them short. His mind reeled from what he had admitted in front of her. She’d taken him in because Arathiel believed in his innocence, and no one would now. Not to mention everything he’d let slip about his mother and his past …
He had chosen to stay and trust these old ladies, but would Camilla even allow him? He wanted to believe in her, but where had that led him in the past? Brune, Larryn, and Cal had all let him down, each in their own way. Hasryan tried to reason with himself—to cling to Camilla’s calm, to the concern in her voice when she had uttered his name on their way back—but panic swirled inside despite his best attempts. Everyone had always left. She would too. He just knew she would.
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