“You know more about this than I do,” he told Nevian. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t free Varden? I can still back out.”
Nevian swallowed hard. “It’s not Varden. The High Priest is the only good thing left in that enclave. But there’s no point.” He flattened his hands against his legs, licked his lips, and lifted his chin to stare at Arathiel. “You can’t succeed. They’ll catch you, and Avenazar will rip through every inch of your mind. He’ll know I’m alive and I’m here. He’ll know Cal saved me. He’ll know you helped. He’ll know Larryn fed and housed me, too. You don’t understand how he is. We’ll all pay. He’ll find everyone involved.”
Nevian’s voice grew shakier as he spoke, urgent and desperate. He moved one hand from his leg to his forearm, as if it hurt him. Arathiel didn’t know what to tell him. Avenazar had inflicted deep scars on Nevian, and his fear went beyond his crash on the bridge. But if his claims were true, saving that poor priest only became more important.
“I can’t leave him in there, but I won’t be alone.” Arathiel straightened up, and looked first at Larryn, then at Cal. “Lord Dathirii said they’d welcome any and all allies I chose.”
“Absolutely not,” Larryn’s immediate response didn’t surprise Arathiel. “If you want to go kill yourself for the sake of a high-born fake, that’s your loss. I’m not risking my hide on a prissy elf’s request. Too many people rely on me. I’m … glad you saved Hasryan, even if you refuse to tell me where to find my best friend. But don’t think I’ve forgotten you lied to me for a month, or that I don’t care about the preferential treatment you’re getting because you’re a noble. If any of us wore your beautiful shackles, we’d rot in that cell forever, no matter how close to Lord Dathirii we were.”
Larryn’s anger swirled inside Arathiel, almost as if he’d transmitted his outrage. Arathiel reined it in, wrestling it into a cold fury. Larryn was right. None of them would have escaped that prison, but not for the reasons Larryn wanted to believe. Steel laced Arathiel’s voice when he spoke.
“Do you know why they asked me, Larryn? Lord Dathirii didn’t care about my title. Of his own admission, he came because I could break my ankle, snap it back into place, and walk on it like nothing happened. Because I don’t feel pain, and I barely notice sword stabs. They said I was half-dead, held together by unknown magic.” Bitterness crept into his words. “I guess that means there’s less of me left to lose! But maybe you’re right. Maybe resistance to pain isn’t such an invaluable asset on this risky mission, and the hundred years of a strange Well sucking my life force away have nothing to do with this opportunity. It’s all about my title.”
Larryn huffed and crossed his arms, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, silence stretched between them, heavy with the bitterness of their respective pasts. Arathiel withheld a sigh, deciding that unravelling the layers of conflict wasn’t worth his time or energy, and turned a questioning gaze to Cal. Things were simpler with him, weren’t they?
Cal smiled. “Of course I’m coming, Ara. I wouldn’t let you down.” He stared meaningfully at Larryn, who flung his hands up.
“I’m not helping a Dathirii! Have fun getting yourselves killed!” Larryn turned on his heels and left, slamming the door behind him.
Arathiel rubbed his temples, then looked at Nevian. The young apprentice swallowed hard and shook his head, terrified. “I’m not asking you to come,” Arathiel said, “but if you have any sympathies for Varden, you should tell us what you can about the enclave. Help us out.”
Nevian stared at the ground, pale and distraught. He wiped his sweaty hands and forced himself to breathe slowly. “But Avenazar …” He stopped and fell silent for a long minute, as if considering the argument he’d meant to put forward. Then he closed his eyes. “Okay. I’ll tell you what I know. About layout and guards. I-I’ve been in and out a lot. But you need to do your best. Not just for me! Varden is … He would have come for me.”
Cal grinned and pumped his fist. “You bet we will.”
For the first time in days, Arathiel wanted to laugh. Cal’s determined expression smothered his sadness. Although Cal might not understand him like Hasryan, he’d always welcomed him without conditions. His presence acted as a constant balm for Arathiel’s soul, and he was glad his small friend had agreed to come. Despite Nevian’s obvious fears, Arathiel looked forward to their expedition. He relished the last chance to spend time with Cal and accomplish something good with his stretched life.
Branwen had tried to get to sleep early, aiming to be as rested as possible for Varden’s rescue, but she couldn’t even keep her eyes shut for more than a few minutes. The blankets pressed down on her or became too light; the winter wind howled too loudly, or the room turned too quiet when it died. Her back still hurt, and her heart hammered in her chest. She knew her problem: anxious excitement had taken over, and she wouldn’t sleep until she was ready to collapse. How convenient that Garith had no plans to rest tonight, either! Soon enough, she stalked down the corridor, entered his room without knocking, and threw herself on his bed.
Her cousin had dressed for work, his long golden hair pulled into a ponytail and his rectangle optics on the tip of his nose. Countless scrolls spread across the desk, and a pyramidal pile of rolled ones overflowed to the ground. When Branwen stepped inside, Garith had thrown her a glance, waved briefly, then bent back over his work. His fingers trailed columns of numbers on the scrolls, and he seemed to occasionally transfer one to the book in front of him. She waited in silence, knowing better than to disturb him. Garith usually only needed a moment to finish up and listen to her. It wouldn’t be long. She started playing with her nails.
One minute passed. Then two, and three. Branwen kept glancing at her cousin. Ten minutes later, all he’d done was mumble to himself, and scribble more sums. She rubbed her thumb on the inside of her skirt, the soft texture settling her growing anxiety.
“Garith?”
“Hm?”
He still didn’t look up, or even tilt his head in her direction. Instead he wrote another number, then removed his finger from the scroll he’d been reading and rolled it. What was she supposed to make of his silence? Garith always made time to talk.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
A soft knock interrupted before he could answer. Garith set down his quill with a relieved sigh. “Come in, Vellien.”
Their youngest cousin pushed the door open, slipping their head in first, as if to make sure everything was okay before they truly entered. Their expression brightened as they greeted Branwen. Vellien carried a cup of tea so voluminous it might be more accurate to call it a bowl. They made their way to Garith’s desk, hugging the walls, and set it down. Branwen wondered if they noticed they always moved this way, along the edges as if to take up as little space as possible.
“I devised it with Camilla,” Vellien said. “There’s an herb inside that will improve your concentration, but it’s very bitter so we infused it with other plants to attenuate the taste. She offered to make more at any point tonight, if you want.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need all the help I can get.” Garith leaned back, then stretched his arms above his head for several seconds. “If you have time, Vellien, you could entertain Branwen. She seems under the impression I am available for a chat.”
He motioned in her direction, and for a moment Branwen was vaguely offended. When was he not, for her? Her gaze went from the huge tea cup to her young cousin, then back to Garith. She’d never seen his desk in such a state, and Garith’s usual relaxed demeanour had vanished. He was tense and worried. She frowned and sat cross-legged.
“Okay. Something happened, and no one’s told me yet.”
Silence stretched as her two cousins looked at one another. Garith leaned over his tea to sniff it while Vellien shifted from one foot to the other. Branwen stared at Vellien, knowing they would give in faster. They cleared their throat.
“It doesn’t concern your priest …” Their words trailed off, and
they turned to Garith for help.
“And you have your hands full preparing your expedition,” Garith continued.
“So we thought we’d let you be?”
Vellien’s hesitant tone convinced Branwen they knew she would have wanted to know. She lifted her chin and allowed her skeptical gaze speak for itself. Vellien was a few decades younger than Garith and Branwen, and still a teenager in many regards, but the three of them had grown up together. She didn’t need to voice her disappointment. Neither of them volunteered further details, however, and after a few minutes, she tired of their tense silence. “So? What happened and why is Garith planning an all-nighter?”
Garith turned to her fully. She expected him to grin, to laugh and joke and dismiss whatever stressed them, even just for show, but his expression remained grim. It worried Branwen more than their avoidance of the topic.
“Lord Allastam successfully moved the next Golden Table meeting to tomorrow. He told Uncle Diel he intended to challenge our right to the two Dathirii seats around the Table. I’m reviewing all of our recent transactions—what little income there is, and all the expenses—and will spend the night desperately trying to arrange them in a way that makes it look like we have a significant amount of gold passing through our hands.”
“That asshole.” Branwen found nothing else to add. Lord Allastam’s resentment went deeper than she had expected. His wife had died a decade ago, and he had been ready to make amends with Lord Freitz after Hasryan’s arrest, but now he sought to shove them out of the table? Could their deal with Arathiel really provoke this much anger, or had he been waiting for his chance to cut House Dathirii out? Both, perhaps—Alton’s warning about letters and their timing echoed in her mind. Guilt wracked her stomach, but she dug her fingers in Garith’s blankets and pushed it back.
“But you’ll show him, right?” she asked.
“How do I put this?” Garith linked his hands without the slightest smile. “I have been occupying our second seat for years now, and this is without a doubt my last attendance at the Golden Table. No amount of number tricks will cover the gaping void in our finances, even considering the brand new income arranged today. At this point, the miracle would be to save Uncle Diel’s seat, and with it our official status as a noble House in Isandor.”
With a deep breath, Garith picked up the next scroll. He secured both ends under small weights, then drank slowly from his tea. Branwen and Vellien stared at him, as if the simple movement possessed some fascinating meaning. Garith held the family’s fate in his hands tonight. No wonder he had lost his carefree composure. He snatched his quill up again, but didn’t start yet. He was eyeballing his book, searching for the courage to dive into the mind-numbing work once more.
“I really hope your rescue mission goes well, Brannie, because there’s a chance by the time you come back, no one in this city will give a shit about us, or our well-being. What pretense our title afforded us will have been pulverized.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he added, “Please don’t disappear again.”
Branwen’s throat tightened. Despite everyone relying on him, Garith worried about her. She forced enthusiasm into her tone to reassure him. “Have no fear. We’ll be in and out in no time, and we’ll have the best and kindest fire wielder in the entire city with us. He’ll care, and he’ll help us.”
She turned to Vellien, hoping they’d add something. Instead, they squeezed Garith’s shoulder, then sat on the bed beside her. “Maybe I should come with you, Branwen,” they suggested. “That way if someone gets hurt, I’ll be there.”
“Don’t. We’ll be fine.” She forced certainty into her tone. Vellien could have helped with Varden’s state a great deal, but she couldn’t bring herself to risk her younger cousin’s safety. They would not fare well in an infiltration mission, and if they got hurt, no one would be able to heal Varden once they returned. “With Kellian protecting me, what could even happen? Besides, don’t you have a meeting with Nevian?”
Vellien’s face broke into a smile, and Branwen arched her eyebrows. Last time they’d mentioned him, Vellien had said Nevian only tolerated the visits because he knew it helped his memory—not the kind of relationship that sparked an eager grin. “Supposed to be the last. Nevian is capable of working on new spells now, and he means to cast one tonight. We meet later, to make sure everything went fine. After that …” Vellien pouted. “I don’t think Larryn wants me to linger. He only accepted because I promised to help others. We’ve reached a truce—I avoid him, he avoids me, and no one gets yelled at again. Overstaying my welcome could break it.”
“Sounds like an important meeting with an important someone. Can’t miss it.” Branwen watched with satisfaction as Vellien’s freckled cheeks brightened. “I hope he’s grateful. I risked a lot to save him, and you’re spending quite a bit of time with him.”
Vellien laugh-snorted in their characteristic way. “Don’t expect a show of it, even if he is.”
Branwen pouted. “Then the least he can do is help Arathiel. He should come with us to repay his debt!”
Vellien tilted their head to the side and frowned. “Why would he? He’s terrified of the enclave.”
“Who isn’t? But Arathiel helped Cal save him! He’s the one who asked Camilla to send you down there in the first place.”
Faced with Vellien’s continued confusion, Branwen decided to give them the full tale. It would keep her busy, and perhaps by the end of it, she would manage to sleep. She and Diel had talked for a long time after he’d announced his plan to save Varden. Once he’d shared what he knew of Arathiel’s story with her, she’d added it to what Vellien had heard from the Shelter to get a more complete picture of what had happened on winter solstice.
Garith returned to his huge pile of scrolls and columns of numbers, sometimes pausing to drink from the tea. His mutters and soft swears served as background noise while Branwen related what she knew of the night’s events. She’d thrown a dagger at Avenazar, interrupting his abuse long enough for Nevian to roll off the bridge. Cal and Arathiel had found him right after he’d crashed below, and Arathiel had climbed through the city and knocked at Camilla’s door. By that time, he’d known their aunt and shared tea with her for a few weeks, which was why he’d turned to her for help.
“That’s when she sought you out and came to my quarters,” she finished.
She expected Vellien to be amazed at finally receiving a complete picture of that long night. Instead, they frowned, wringing their hands, legs kicking in the empty space. They even turned away, refusing to look at Branwen. What did they worry about? Vellien always found small things to fret over, and perhaps she should try to reassure them.
“You know, everyone wants us to believe this Hasryan is a heartless murderer, and Arathiel is evil for saving him, but the more I hear about them, the less it makes sense. I mean, Arathiel agreed to risk his life for a man he doesn’t even know, didn’t he? It’s not like he’ll get a lot in return.”
She did wonder why he’d accepted. A day’s freedom didn’t seem like a great reason. But Arathiel had seen the results of Avenazar’s assault on Nevian, and maybe that had sufficed. Perhaps the short glance at the kind of pain Varden might be enduring was enough. She liked to think he was that kind of person, and that Diel had taken all these risks for someone worthy of them.
“I guess,” Vellien said without sounding reassured at all. “Cal is very sweet, too. Then there’s Larryn. He’s not … I’m told he has his reasons, but he really hates nobles. That doesn’t make him a bad person. Maybe Hasryan is like that too. Maybe he killed for good reasons?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” Branwen yawned, then flopped down on Garith’s bed. Exhaustion always crashed hard into her these days, as if all her energy drained at once. “At this point though, I’d cheer him on just to spite Lord Allastam.”
Vellien chuckled, yet the tension didn’t vanish from their voice. “I hope that’s it, but … I don’t like the results. People dying. We don’t k
now that they deserved it. Why can’t everyone be nicer?”
“You’ll like Varden,” Branwen said. He hadn’t been able to let her burn or capture her, despite the risks to himself. Living in the Myrian Empire might have given Varden a hard edge, yet inside thrived nothing but generosity and kindness, and it escaped his outward shell more often than not. Branwen stretched and rolled over, the soft blankets and cushy mattress calling to her, demanding she stayed in their embrace.
“Hey Garith, since you won’t be using your bed, mind if I occupy it for a night? I’m too lazy to move.”
“Sure,” Garith said. “Your snores can be my company.”
Branwen answered with a rude gesture, knowing any denial would be met with more mockery. She turned her attention back to Vellien and, ensconced in Garith’s bed, she started telling them about Varden. It was long past midnight by the time they both dozed off, but the scratching of Garith’s quill continued deeper into the night.
Branwen stifled another yawn as she dragged her feet toward her quarters. She should have slept more. Varden depended on her and the mission tonight, and it wouldn’t do to be jelly-brained from exhaustion. But it made her so anxious! If they failed, they would have called the wrath of House Allastam and lost seats at the Golden Table, if not their titles themselves, all for nothing. When she and Vellien had stirred awake in the morning, they had forced Garith to catch a few hours of sleep, too. He would need his wits to answer the Golden Table’s questions about his accounts.
When they’d left, she had accompanied Vellien back to their room, inquiring further about Nevian’s state. Varden might occupy her thoughts most of the time, but she hadn’t saved that kid to let him rot, forgotten. Even if he was a bit of a grumpy bear from the sound of it. Besides, she enjoyed Vellien’s revealing flush. How the lanky, ungrateful teenager had somehow caught her cousin’s heart might be beyond her, but Branwen knew a crush when she saw one. Too soon, it became time to return to her quarters, prepare her outfit and equipment, and join Uncle Diel to meet Arathiel.
City of Betrayal Page 16
