City of Betrayal

by Claudie Arseneault

  His relief drained out of him, leaving a hollow disbelief. Isra never listened. No matter what he said, she’d only believe the version she liked. And she would repeat it. How long before she told the enclave he’d survived? His respite from Avenazar was over. Small footsteps behind him warned Nevian that Cal had caught up to them. Trapped again. He focused on Isra.

  “I threw myself off the bridge.”

  Isra crossed her arms with a pout. “Fine, if you want to be like that! Your famous fall didn’t change you one bit. You always keep everything to yourself!”

  Nevian gritted his teeth. “Why wouldn’t I? You keep nothing to yourself!”

  “That’s a lie! I don’t repeat secrets.” She raised her chin, trying to stare down Nevian despite being shorter than him. He withheld a snort. “If you’d told me about your nightly excursions, I would never have gone to Master Avenazar. I could have helped you.”

  As if, Nevian thought. She might have been useful for a while, but the moment it bored her, Isra would have moved on and become a danger to him. “Nobody could know,” he protested. “A word out and I was dead.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why tell your Isbari priest? Why was he worthy of your trust?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. He figured it out himself.” Nevian mimicked her prideful sneer. That was why she was angry at him. She had wanted to know, and she had wanted the exclusivity. “You can’t accept that Varden outsmarted you.”

  Her frustrated huff was the most satisfying sound he’d heard in a long time. He shouldn’t enrage her, not when she could tell on him, but her attitude grated on his nerves. Her retort justified every insult so far.

  “Not sure he feels so smart right now,” she said.

  Nevian crossed the distance between them in one long stride and grabbed the front of her dress. She yelped as he pushed her against the wall, surprised and confused. Nevian didn’t understand himself either. His head spun, and blood throbbed against his temples, but the words flowed out on their own.

  “High Priest Varden didn’t deserve this. Your obsession with him is disgusting. He’s not an out-of-control pyromaniac, he’s the only soul in the enclave who helped me. He cared.”

  Nevian’s voice turned rough, and he let go of Isra. He had done everything he could to avoid thinking about Varden since awakening at the Shelter. When he dwelt on what Avenazar would inflict on the poor priest … a shudder ran down his spine. This was his fault, too. He should have warned Varden, should have tried something.

  Isra batted his hand away, then smoothed her robe. “I can’t be blamed because he hid that woman for a week. Act high and mighty all you want, but I was right about him. He betrayed us, protected a Dathirii elf, and paid for it.”

  Nevian recalled the girly giggle he’d heard when he had returned Varden’s rekhemal. Why take such a risk for a stranger? But perhaps she wasn’t one. They had been partially undressed, after all, and while Nevian had never grasped attraction, he’d seen how it could govern others’ behaviour. Varden’s actions might follow a logic that felt foreign to him. He’d always had too much heart for his own good. “What happened to her?”

  Isra shrugged. She didn’t know, and clearly she didn’t care either.

  “She escaped,” Cal answered from behind, moving closer to Nevian and throwing him an apologetic look. “The news is all over the city. That’s Branwen Dathirii, and she returned to her family. People say she was pretty beat up, though.”

  “She’s lucky if that’s all she got from Avenazar.” Nevian reached for his forearm. He wanted to curl up in his bed, inside the Shelter, and hide for the rest of his life. Why had he risked going out? Now he’d been discovered, and he still held the kids’ book. A fugitive and a thief. What a horrible day. “Isra. You need to keep this a secret.”

  “If you define ‘this’ and ask nicely, I might.”

  Nevian glared at her, and his jaw worked as he stomped on his pride. Ask nicely. As if she had any right! But he couldn’t afford her betraying him. “Please. If you tell anyone I’m alive, I won’t be for long. Avenazar …”

  “I know.” Her voice hitched, and the sudden emotion surprised Nevian. Her haunted gaze shared a story he’d experienced often. “He … he attacked me too. Jilssan stopped him.” She touched her amulet once more, just as he reached for his forearm. Isra met his eyes. “I told you, I’m glad you’re alive. I miss having you around, but I won’t say a word. I swear I’m a pretty good liar.”

  “Okay.” He stepped back and swallowed hard, struggling to accept this. If he stopped her from returning to the enclave, it would arouse suspicion. As much as he hated putting his fate in the hands of another—let alone in the hands of a spoiled brat who never thought of anyone but herself—he had no choice. “Thank you, Isra.”

  “No problem. See you around someday, I hope!”

  She morphed into a hawk again, wings stretching out from her arms, her blonde hair turning into a mass of brown feathers. Her final caw as she flew away made Nevian’s heart sink. He wondered how long he had before she let it slip.

  A tiny hand touched his forearm, and he glanced down. The contact triggered slight dizziness, so he pulled away and stared in the opposite direction. Cal must be happy to have so many of his incessant questions answered. Perhaps Nevian really would get his two weeks of peace, but he doubted it. Something would interrupt. Something always did.

  “I thought you’d trapped me,” he said as an apology for the bookslide.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Cal tapped the book and added, “Nice choice. I’ll go back and pay for it once you’re at the Shelter, okay? Let’s get you to safety.”

  Nevian gave a tiny nod, and they started off. He was glad he didn’t have to return to the shop, and that Cal would make sure he hadn’t become a criminal on top of everything else. Not that it would change anything. Sooner or later, Isra would say one word too many, and Avenazar would start looking for him. Nevian stared at the children’s story in his hand, and something hardened inside him. Being with him was dangerous. The next time he saw Efua, he needed to tell her to keep her distance until it was over. He’d miss her small voice reading in the background, but he couldn’t allow Avenazar to touch a single hair on her head.

  Jilssan avoided Avenazar’s office as a general rule. She hated the decor inside. A massive black sculpture of Master Rannar dominated the room, dwarfing Avenazar yet reminding his visitors of the man who deserved his adoration. Although astute observers might question the expenses of transporting this ridiculously huge piece of art from their homeland, Myrians and Isbari had Rannar’s name carved into their collective memories—as a glorious conqueror to the former, and as a mass murderer to the latter. He might not have drained the Bielal Sea himself, but he had led Myria’s army across Isbari land, and stories of his devastating influence now travelled through time. They said he could stand outside a city and cause siblings to turn on each other, or soldiers to kill themselves from terror before an assault. Perhaps Rannar’s mastery of others’ minds had first seduced Avenazar, but every fraction of his legend suited their enclave leader’s style. Jilssan’s gaze slid from the black statue to Avenazar, who glared at her.

  “I didn’t call for you,” he said.

  “Didn’t you? I must have dreamed it!” As if her nights weren’t filled with much more agreeable things. Jilssan rolled her eyes and raised the object of her visit: a thick missive from Myria. “I figured you’d want to read the important news first.”

  Avenazar set his quill down. She risked a glance at his scribbles and spotted a few runes. Magic, then, not threatening letters to Isandor’s merchants. “Unless it’s from the Protection of Citizenship Department, the pile is over there.”

  He pointed to a dozen other parchments on the ground, all bearing the Circle’s seal, all ignored and gathering dust. How long had they been there? The Circle stood at the very top of Myria’s hierarchy, way above Citizenship. Why would Avenazar even care about the latter? Especially more than h
e cared about the Circle? Jilssan’s heart dropped at the realization. Varden. Almost every resource of Citizenship went to regulating and issuing ownership papers for slaves.

  “What did you request from them? We have more than enough slaves to cook and clean for the entire enclave.” She knew what. She knew who, and found it hard to remain calm. Jilssan cursed herself for the strong reaction—nothing good would come out of rooting for Varden. “If you require manual help, you should ask for another apprentice instead.”

  “Why waste a Myrian’s time?” He brushed the idea aside with a dismissive gesture. “Keroth’s clergy already threw him out. All I need is a final confirmation.”

  “And everything else is meaningless until you get it?” Jilssan shook the letter. She would much rather discuss the lapse in his duties than Varden’s future. “What even is the point? He won’t make a great slave if he can’t stand, and he’ll never obey an order from you.”

  “Truly?” A dangerous light brightened Avenazar’s gaze. “I’ve always wanted to find permanent ways to subjugate individual willpower. Continuous magic is tricky, but imagine how much we could accomplish! This is a great opportunity to test the limit of my skills.”

  Jilssan’s throat dried. This conversation had taken a turn for the worse, and she regretted bringing the Circle’s letter. She flung it on the pile, unable to hide her fear entirely. “We have more pressing concerns. Must I remind you we have a war unfolding? We’re crushing House Dathirii, but a distraction could cost us our advantage. This is the time to finish it cleanly and avoid an escalation, not to tamper with Varden’s mind.”

  “Don’t forget yourself, Jilssan. You might convince me our priest friend has truly turned your head.”

  Avenazar didn’t have to spell out the underlying threat. She’d survived in the Myrian Empire long enough to know she’d stepped too far and needed to tread carefully. “He’s just a pretty face,” she said. “My head’s right where it should be, I promise.” And yet she couldn’t stop thinking of his rough voice, his stubborn pride is all I have left, his unyielding determination to fight. His resistance had impressed her, overcoming her usual disdain for idealism. If Jilssan was honest with herself—and she was the only person with whom she always was—Varden had turned her head, and she loathed every plan Avenazar made for him.

  “Then perhaps you ought to stop complaining and start contributing to our success,” the wizard said. “Read the Circle’s letters and spare me their quivering. I must prepare for a meeting with our next decisive ally and have no time for bureaucratic drivel.”

  Jilssan choked down her protest. The last time someone slighted Avenazar, he’d razed several houses to avenge himself before claiming her apprentice for two years of free labour. He had no shame, no inhibitions about massive and violent reactions. By comparison, the Circle’s calculated decisions looked like pointless handwringing. Besides, she’d love to get a peek at the correspondence they sent and—even better—become their main contact with Isandor’s enclave. What a great opportunity, and all because—wait … a decisive ally?

  “Who are you meeting?”

  Avenazar snorted. “You take care of Myria, and I’ll crush Isandor under our foot, all right?”

  The level of condescension in Avenazar’s tone stunned Jilssan. She schooled her expression into impassiveness, too used to men relegating her to the role of secretary to snap back at the most volatile of them. “Of course!” she chirped with the brightest false smile she could manage. “Let me get that drab business right out of your hands.”

  Too bad for him if he didn’t understand the importance of this communication. No one offered meaningful positions to complete strangers if they’d befriended a good candidate before. Jilssan’s sheer magical power might never equal Avenazar’s, but climbing the Circle’s ranks relied on more than spellcasting. By the time he established their dominance over Isandor and Jilssan could return home, she would have a network of strong allies waiting to help her along. Master Enezi could even vouch for her steadfastness in training Isra should anyone ask about her potential.

  Jilssan gathered the letters and flipped through them, letting the papers flap noisily against each other to distract Avenazar. A petty revenge, but his glare was worth it. Jilssan trotted out of his office, and as her gaze passed over Rannar’s statue, her heart twinged. No Myrian contact would ever listen to a petition for Varden. He’d have to fend for himself, and his best chance relied on Avenazar growing distracted with this new ally. Doubtful. He’d been scribbling spells when she entered, and she had framed controlling Varden as a challenge. Avenazar didn’t care about Isandor, or even Myria’s politics. He loved his magic and the power it brought him over others. Here, far from the Circle’s immediate sphere of influence, he could exercise both at will. Varden was the most recent victim, but he wouldn’t be the last.

  ✵

  Jilssan found her apprentice sitting in the inner garden, on the low stone wall around the central willow. The ancient tree was the only one they hadn’t cut down upon building the enclave. Jilssan had suggested a small resting area might benefit everyone’s mood—one of the rare occasions Varden had agreed with her. She’d caught him with a large sketch pad and charcoal a few times the first summer. He had been more relaxed back then. They had only spent a few months together at the time, and none of them had known Avenazar’s true nature.

  They had all discovered with time, of course. One by one, at their own expense, they had triggered his wrath. Even Isra had crossed enough lines that he’d given her Nevian’s treatment. It had lasted only a brief moment—one strong burst of magic—but her apprentice hadn’t been the same since. Isra’s cheerful carelessness had vanished. Instead, she sulked about, avoiding Jilssan and her routine exercises. Today, she was staring at a white flower, spinning it between her fingers, deep in thought.

  Jilssan traversed the gardens, ignoring the tightness in her lungs as the cold air hit them in full force. She disliked this about Isandor’s winters—when days turned dry and freezing, even breathing became a struggle. She’d never caught herself wheezing in Myria before, and she hoped no one heard her here. Signs of weaknesses were too often used against you in her cutthroat world. She smiled as she settled next to Isra. Seeking out the gardens to walk around them or play with the flowers had been a habit of hers in Myria, too, whenever she felt down.

  “You always choose the white ones,” Jilssan said.

  Isra lifted her head, then shrugged. “They’re prettier.”

  Jilssan disagreed, but she had no wish to debate flower colours. These last two days, Isra’s already sullen mood had grown even worse, and Jilssan had resolved to investigate. “Was the shopping trip any help?”

  “Help with what?”

  Bright blue eyes met Jilssan’s gaze, as if challenging her to voice her concerns. It was kind of cute, how Isra seemed to think her master hadn’t noticed. They’d spent the last three years together, and since coming to Isandor, Jilssan was the only adult in charge of Isra. Of course she kept an eye on her to make sure everything was okay. She wasn’t Avenazar.

  “Isra, I said you could talk to me when something’s wrong. You’re still thinking about Nevian and Varden, I can tell, and you shouldn’t keep it all in. So my initial question was: did the shopping trip distract you a little, at least?”

  Isra gripped her knees. She wouldn’t look at Jilssan anymore. “Yeah, it was distracting all right. Now I just feel worse.”

  Isra heaved a sigh, then shook from a deep shudder. She dropped the flower and closed her fingers into fists. For the first time, Jilssan noticed she had neither gloves nor a cloak of fur. No one should be outside without proper clothing at this time of year.

  “Let’s go inside.” Jilssan slid down the small stone wall and grabbed one of Isra’s freezing hands. “We’ll get a fire roaring, and I know a spell that turns milk into hot cocoa. You’ll be all set for a long girl-to-girl talk. All right?”

  Isra resisted the pull, staring a
head. “I don’t think—”

  “Consider it a magic demonstration, and a required part of your training.”

  This time, Isra jumped down the wall and followed Jilssan, doubts plain across her face. Her shoulders remained slumped as they headed back into the wizards’ quarters, almost as if she were hugging herself.

  ✵

  Jilssan needed a while to get everything ready. Temple acolytes had been in charge of keeping steady flames in all of the enclave’s fireplaces, but their diligence had taken a hit since Varden’s imprisonment. Dying embers had been all that remained in Isra’s room, leaving Jilssan to start the fire anew. She’d sent her apprentice to fetch them milk while she struggled with it, and eventually managed hot and stable flames.

  The extended pause worked out for the best. Isra came back long before Jilssan succeeded. She wrapped herself in her blankets, sitting cross-legged on her bed, and stayed silent. It seemed she was preparing what she wanted to say, and how—so she had at least decided to voice some of her worries. Excellent progress, as far as Jilssan was concerned. Isra talked a lot, but never about things that mattered. More than once, it had felt like she was holding something back, covering her deeper thoughts with mindless chatter.

  Once she was finished, Jilssan straightened up and motioned for the milk. She had barely taken the cup out of Isra’s hands when the teenager started spilling it all out.

  “I don’t believe what Master Avenazar is doing to Varden is fair.” Her voice dropped as she named Avenazar, as if she were afraid the wizard would hear her through the walls. “And it’s my fault, isn’t it?”

  Jilssan lowered the two cups of milk. It wasn’t fair, not in a million years, but what could they do about it? Varden had sealed his own fate, and opposing Avenazar would get them killed. “High Priest Varden hid a member of the enemy family in his quarters for days. You cannot be blamed for that.”