“I didn’t know, but now I do.”
Then she continued chatting as he cleaned the remainder of the dishes, listing all the cool spells she wanted to learn. Larryn wondered how many of them existed, and how many Nevian could really cast. Hadn’t his magic been erased? But from the moment he could sit without getting sick, Nevian had studied relentlessly. Perhaps his situation had improved. Larryn ought to ask Vellien. They could give him a complete overview of Nevian’s progress.
Then Efua spoke dreamily of magic to see the future, and Larryn froze, forgetting all about Nevian’s health. Casters cost a lot to hire, even for simple spells. Divinations were so out of his world, Larryn had never considered them to track down Hasryan. Except he had a mage, here in the Shelter, and Nevian owed him.
Efua poked him. “Is something wrong, Larryn?”
“No. No, I think something is finally right.” He smiled at her, and put down the large pot he’d just cleaned. “I need to talk to your new teacher, though.”
Ten minutes later, Larryn knocked on Nevian’s door. Once he knew where Hasryan was hiding, he’d be able to sleep. He hated this mystery. Hasryan would have sent news, despite the way they’d parted. And if not, then Larryn only need to speak with him even more—to fix his mess. Time chipped at his fragile trust in Arathiel. Sure, he’d jumped in and saved Hasryan, but at what cost? He had hidden everything from them, and now Larryn had to wait in the dark, as if his best friend’s life wasn’t still on the line. No matter how many card games they had played together, Arathiel would always remain a noble, which meant he had a flimsy grasp of the power dynamic they lived with every day in the Lower City. Arathiel’s quick release by Lord Dathirii only proved his status. Nobles protected each other. But Hasryan had no title, no safeguard. Whatever Arathiel’s plan, Larryn refused to rely on it.
Nevian still hadn’t answered, so Larryn knocked again. This time, an exasperated voice called, “Just enter!”
Larryn scowled as he grabbed the doorknob. Couldn’t Nevian be bothered to stand and come open himself? Did he think he stayed at a deluxe inn for his Lordship? Larryn huffed, a familiar outrage swirling at the bottom of his stomach, and he stepped in.
Nevian sat a tiny desk Larryn could not remember bringing in the room. He didn’t glance up from his book, his shoulders hunched over what seemed a fascinating read. Larryn cleared his throat, his irritation spiking. Nevian sighed, rubbed his temples, and finally looked his way.
“Yes?” he asked with a slight frown. “Did I do something?”
“You’re a wizard, aren’t you? You can do magic.”
“After a fashion, yes.” Nevian broke eye contact, fingers nervously tapping his desk. “Why?”
“I need your help to find Hasryan. My friend.”
Nevian’s brow furrowed. He sat in silence, the rhythm of his tapping changing with his thoughts. Calculating, hesitating. Then he shook his head. “I don’t work for free.”
Larryn’s lips parted, but only a strangled sound made it through. What had he just heard? Nevian didn’t work for free. Never mind how Cal had dragged his unconscious body all the way to the Shelter, or that Nevian had received healing, a safe room, and regular meals at no cost whatsoever. Never mind how he would be dead several times over without them. None of it mattered! Nevian couldn’t help Larryn with magic, because he didn’t work for free.
It took every bit of willpower for Larryn to contain his anger and keep his tone cool. He didn’t want to yell at Nevian. “You owe us this spell. Any decent person would be offering it, out of gratitude.”
Nevian’s jaw tightened. “It’s not so simple. I can’t … I can barely cast anything. Whatever you ask of me will require time to learn, and I don’t even know if I can make it.”
“How are you supposed to teach Efua if you can’t do it yourself?”
Nevian’s hand slammed the small desk with surprising strength. “I’ll figure it out. Magic is all I have. If I’m ever to make it out of here, I need to put it to good use. That means taking contracts, not flinging away my time and energy. Efua is the exception, because, well—she is! But every minute I spend working on this spell for you would be subtracted from the rare hours I can study. Everyone tells me to look forward and plan as if Master Avenazar won’t ruin my life again, and I am. I cannot build a reputation as someone who gives without pay.”
Larryn couldn’t believe Nevian had just suggested that one free spell for those who had saved his sorry ass would end his non-existent career. Had Nevian never heard of favours or cooperation? Larryn didn’t have time for this shit. He shoved a hand in his pocket, withdrew a copper piece, and threw it on the desk.
“Here’s your pay,” he said with a level of scorn normally reserved for nobles. “I hope it’s worth Hasryan’s life.”
Nevian slapped his palm on the coin before it rolled off the surface. A tight smile curled his lips. “That’s all I wanted.”
“What?” If Nevian played games with him … “Really?”
“Of course.” Nevian pocketed the coin. “I don’t lie. Now I can still say I never cast custom spells for free, but it would be indecent to ask for more. I’ll … I’ll do my best.”
Larryn stared at him. He didn’t understand. The coin was a joke, not a real payment. He’d meant to provoke Nevian, not give in to his weird demands. Yet Larryn had now officially hired a wizard. He would have his divination spell. “Huh … thanks,” he said. “The sooner, the better.”
“Then I should get back to it.”
Nevian put a hand on the large tome opened before him, then threw a significant look at the door. Wow. Dismissed in his own home by some scrawny teenager. Larryn shook his head and left before something more ridiculous happened. What an odd bird. How did Efua ever get anything out of him? Dealing with Nevian’s absurd and unbending rules might be a hassle, but it would be worth it. Larryn dragged his feet to his room, and this time he slept without a hitch. Even if he missed Hasryan’s knock at his window, he would find his friend again.
Diel combed his fingers through Jaeger’s hair, allowing its softness to appease his nerves. The last weeks had been rough on him, but ever since he’d talked to Arathiel, his near-breakdown state had shifted toward calmer and more productive energy. To Jaeger’s great relief. After Branwen’s disappearance, Diel had grown forgetful and easily distracted, which meant Jaeger had covered for him, fulfilling both his regular duties and the ones Diel was omitting. As always, Diel could count on his steward. Yet he hated to make him work harder. He already did so much! And Diel knew all too well how Jaeger would toil until his breaking point without a word of complaint.
With Branwen safe with them and a plan in place to rescue High Priest Varden, however, Diel became calmer and more grounded once more. He even allowed himself small pauses during the day in between the writing of urgent letters, meeting with the local merchants still allied with them, and reviewing finance and security with Garith and Kellian. Branwen had unearthed two new potential trade partners, outsiders looking for a contact through which they could sell their wares, and Diel would dine with one tonight.
First, however, was his appointment with Lord Allastam. Yultes had warned him two days ago of the lord’s ultimatum, and half-heartedly pleaded Diel to change his mind. They hadn’t argued for long, both knowing how pointless it would be, but Yultes had insisted on sacrificing the priest for the sake of the family. Faced with Diel’s unyielding refusal to change their course, Yultes had bitterly declared they ought to pray Keroth would be grateful enough to save their asses.
Sitting behind Jaeger now, gathering his dark hair for a braid and a needed pause before his meeting Lord Allastam, Diel found himself agreeing with Yultes. Lord Allastam had crushed many noble houses in the past, destroying their key trades and even directly attacking House Freitz. House Dathirii might be next. With a sigh, Diel brushed his lover’s long elven ears, knowing full well how much Jaeger responded to the sensation. The steward shivered with pleasure, then turned
halfway around.
“You’re making concentrating on these numbers very difficult,” he said.
“I am aware.” Diel leaned forward, caressing his hair. “You should take a break too. You never do.”
“I will once I’m done with this.” He tapped the scroll containing Garith’s financial forecasts with the new potential partners and smiled. “You have an important meeting in an hour. We both know how enjoyable Lord Allastam plans to be, so focus on being rested and cool.”
Diel pinched the bridge of his nose. As always, Jaeger was right. This meeting with Lord Allastam would try every ounce of patience he had. How could he convince him not to take this as a personal offence? Yultes’ advice in this regard was sound but difficult to follow. Arathiel had freed the assassin convicted of killing Lady Allastam a decade ago. If they’d found Hasryan, it might be easier to defuse the tension. As matters stood now, however, Arathiel was their best lead. Removing him from prison, even temporarily, implied Diel cared little for tracking down this assassin.
As his mind imagined possible consequences of his decision, Diel’s hands started to shake. He picked up Jaeger’s hair again and began a complex braid pattern, one he’d often used for Branwen to make her feel like a princess. As a young girl, she’d loved fashion and fairy tales, but she’d had no mother to share these passions with. Diel did his best despite his busy schedule, relying on Aunt Camilla to be there when he couldn’t. Almost a century had passed since Branwen’s youth, but playing with Jaeger’s hair still soothed him.
He was halfway through the braid when the door to his office slammed shut and made the walls shake. Jaeger sprang to his feet, but Diel grabbed his shoulder.
“Leave it to me.” Few would dare to enter without knocking, or be bold enough to slam the door. “Whoever this is, they clearly want to talk with me. Plus, you can focus on your numbers while I’m not playing with your head.”
Jaeger’s warm chuckle infused Diel with more courage than the hair-braiding ever could. He stole a kiss before hurrying out of his bedroom, to the front office. The leftover contentment vanished as he laid eyes on his visitor.
“Hello, Lord Hellion.”
The greeting crossed his lips without the slightest warmth. Intra-family conflict always began with Lord Hellion. Diel’s distant cousin and Kellian’s brother, Hellion was the spiritual heir to Diel’s father’s politics: he valued titles over decency and reputation over human life. Worse, Hellion’s influence among the Dathirii made him impossible to dismiss out of hand. His beliefs spoke to others of an age with Diel or older, who remembered the days under his father’s rule, when Dathirii elves thought themselves superior—to the humans because of their elven lineage, and to the commoners because of their titles. When Diel’s sister, Tatiel, had married an exiled elf without noble blood, she had created the first dent in that belief. Ever since, Diel fought to bury their supremacist notions as deep as possible.
Lord Hellion kept them well alive.
He stared at Diel with utter contempt, then flicked his head to send his long hair flying back. Unlike Diel, he didn’t tie or braid the emblematic Dathirii golden mane, instead letting his locks spill down his back in all their silky glory. “You are out of your mind.”
Hellion met Diel’s eyes as he made his declaration with complete certainty, his thin lips curling into a sneer. It took only a few seconds for Diel to remember why he preferred dealing with Yultes a thousand times over. For all his melodramatic arrogance, Yultes at least tried to cooperate. If he didn’t harbour inexplicable resentment toward Jaeger, they might even manage to get along. Hellion, on the other hand, only showed up to repeat to Diel’s face what he usually kept behind closed doors.
“I thank you for this precious information,” Diel said. “I’m afraid I have little patience for recriminations I’ve heard a thousand times before, however.”
“Has it not occurred to you that their frequency is directly tied to your urgent need to start taking them into consideration?” Hellion strode across the room, coming to stand just a few feet away from Diel. “You’re a fool. It’s no secret your father would rather have passed his title to your sister, and I marvel every day at how you convinced him you could ever be in charge of our family’s success.”
Diel gritted his teeth. Hellion didn’t often dare to bring the previous Lord Dathirii into the picture. “Father understood the need for change. He knew it was impossible to progress by staying entrenched in old beliefs. I may not have been everything he hoped for, but I proved times and again different tactics could get us better results.”
“Where are your results now? I know it’s hard for you, Diel, but don’t be silly.” Hellion leaned forward with a sneer. “This isn’t about keeping up with the other Houses. You’ve antagonized every human of note in this city. First, you refused to forge a trade alliance with the Myrians, then you practically spat on their leader. Less than a month has passed since you provoked Master Avenazar, yet they’ve drained our resources down to the last coins. And now? You should be sucking up to Lord Allastam for our survival, but no! You have to get your latest love out of—”
“Arathiel is not—”
“Then he should be nothing to you.” Hellion cut the air with his hand, stepping forward and into Diel’s space. A strange anger burned in his eyes, deeper than the typical condescending irritation. Diel reflexively stepped back, then cursed himself for his reaction. He should not give weight to Hellion’s words, but the brief stare left him with the uneasy feeling his cousin would gladly push him down a bridge. “The Dathirii are the best this city has to offer, but we won’t survive your destructive and childish rule. Let the freak rot in prison.”
“No.”
He couldn’t. They needed Arathiel to save Varden, and Diel refused to go back on his choice for the likes of Hellion. It didn’t matter if the other elf was right. They had to try. He couldn’t compromise on the torture of good men for their personal gain.
“This matter isn’t up for discussion, Lord Hellion.” It took every ounce of Diel’s willpower to keep his tone neutral. “It might not please you, but I am Lord Dathirii, and my decision is final.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Diel held true, stomping down his doubts to hide them from Hellion. After a while, the other lord sneered and shook his head.
“You’re unbelievable,” he said. “I refuse participate in this. Mark my words, Diel. I won’t let you bring ruin to our family.”
He spun on his heels, golden hair flying with the movement. Diel inhaled deeply as Hellion strode for the door, his chin high and his shoulders squared. No wonder Yultes always made such theatrical exits: he’d learned from the only other elf even more melodramatic.
As Lord Hellion reached the door, he lifted a hand and threw one last threat over his shoulder. “This isn’t over.”
Then he was gone, slamming the door and leaving a tired Diel behind. He wished it were over, but he still needed to face Lord Allastam’s anger. Diel ran a hand through his hair, then hurried back to Jaeger, eager for some comfort before his next confrontation.
✵
Diel Dathirii stopped at the entrance to Lord Allastam’s gardens. He had no intention of walking down the white pathway again, enveloped by blue-leaved trees and eerie light. Lord Allastam enjoyed making others come to him—a mark of superiority in his mind—and the gardens’ deadly beauty wouldn’t make Diel forget that. He might have obliged last time, when he’d begged for troops to save Branwen from the enclave, but the circumstances had changed. Branwen was safe, and he already had a special team to rescue Varden. Lord Allastam expected Diel to crawl to him and wait for the inevitable ire with his head bent, but Diel refused to be treated like a servant. He let the door close behind him with a resounding bang, announcing his presence.
Hellion’s fluid but spiteful voice clung to his mind in the silence that followed. What if he was right? What if Diel was dooming them all for the sake of a stranger? Shouldn�
��t his family come first, now and always? No. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt like this. He closed his eyes, recalled the warmth of Branwen hugging him tightly, and decided to get this over with.
“I’m here,” he called.
Diel crossed his arms and waited. Patience wasn’t his strength, but Lord Allastam fared even worse. Especially when angered, which would be the case today. As predicted, Lord Allastam stomped down the path after only a few minutes, the sound a mix of small stones crunching under boots and the regular stab of his cane into the ground. Diel smiled as the old lord came around a bend and stopped to glare at him.
“This is not my audience chamber.”
“It is now,” Diel replied. “Say your piece. I have a busy schedule and little time to waste strolling down pretty magical forests.”
“Oh, yes. You’ve been busy all right.” Lord Allastam wasn’t even trying to hide his bitterness. “It must demand a lot of energy to humiliate my family and free the wretched freak who let my wife’s assassin escape. I forget how much you enjoy hooking up with filth.”
Diel had expected to be spat on, yet something about the way Lord Allastam said “hooking up” set him even more on edge. The insult wasn’t aimed at him. At the very least, he’d just called Arathiel “filth,” but he’d also implied this was a recurring event. Diel scowled. He had a unique couple dynamic with Jaeger, with the occasional addition of a third partner. Many of them had been human, however, and aging eventually strained their bond. Unlike Jaeger, who remained his one steady love, and had been for over a century now—a time span much longer than Allastam’s life.
“I do not ‘hook up with filth.’ They are not filth.” Diel stepped forward, glaring at Lord Allastam. His patience for arrogance had vanished with the jab at Jaeger. “I’m not surprised you’d believe so, however. You think people need a title to deserve your respect. A title, and to be constantly licking your boots. Arathiel has more heart than you ever will, and Jaeger is worthier than any noble in this city. If they and those who won’t submit to you are filth, then I would much rather be with them than by your side.”
City of Betrayal Page 14
