She was hurrying down the stairs toward her quarters when she came across Kellian, making his way up with a limp. Her eyes found his bloodied leg right away, and her heart dropped.
“Uncle Kellian, what happened?”
She scrambled to him and reached for his elbow, intending to offer support. He waved her away. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, just a scuffle.”
“Just a scuffle that left you bleeding, yes!” She grabbed his arm and ignored his protest. “Let’s go see Vellien.”
“I don’t need—”
“No one gets on my expedition with a wounded leg.” Her voice carried a decisiveness she wasn’t used to, and which surprised Kellian too, judging by his wide eyes. He studied her, and Branwen’s tone softened. “You’re coming to save Varden, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” They reached the top of the stairs, and Kellian turned to face her. He put a firm hand on her shoulder, and although her uncle was small and wounded, his presence became a solid comfort. Branwen might tease him about his rigidity and protectiveness, but you could always count on Kellian. “I won’t let Avenazar or anyone else touch you again.”
“Aw, Uncle!” She wrapped him in a big hug and laughed when he grumbled a protest at the display of affection. It didn’t stop him from squeezing back. “You can’t trail every single Dathirii you like all the time. I hereby release you of your guilt over what happened at the tailor’s shop, or Avenazar’s attack when I escaped. You’re doing your best.”
She withdrew, only to find herself facing a deep frown.
“Thank you, but I know I’ve failed you.”
Branwen snorted, rolling her eyes. There would be no convincing Kellian otherwise. He’d have to work through that guilt himself. She stepped back, set her hands on her hips, and threw a pointed look at his wounded leg. “Then you’d better get that healed, and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Kellian answered with a solemn nod. “You’re right. I’ll need to be in the best of shape.” He bowed, drawing an annoyed huff out of Branwen. She prepared to tease him until she saw the mocking gleam in his eyes. He was pulling her strings with exaggerated propriety. “Milady, I leave you now to limp away and find a soul kind enough to tend to my burning leg.”
His mask remained steady, but Branwen laughed and landed a peck on his cheek. She’d missed these quick back-and-forths, the push and pull of their differences, and the ease with which they joked about it. She enjoyed bending the rules as much as he did applying and protecting them, and it had caused more than a few sparks over the decades. But she loved her uncle, and she knew without a doubt that he returned it in his own stiff way. As he turned away, Branwen touched his forearm.
“Uncle, one last thing!”
“Yes?”
“The guard who greeted me the night of winter solstice—the one who brought me all the way to Diel’s quarters—what’s her name?”
“Cordelia, why?”
“I must extend proper thanks to her.” Branwen noticed the flicker of approval in his gaze, and she grinned. “Also, she’s very pretty. Thank you!”
He groaned. “Don’t flirt with the guards, Branwen!”
Her eyebrows shot up, and she pouted. Garith had in the past, although she suspected he had never received Kellian’s blessing. She didn’t need it either. If she wanted to know more about the beautiful knight who’d been so kind to her, she saw no reason not to. Kellian stared at her for a time, no doubt guessing she’d ignore his words the moment he turned his back. He sighed, but she heard the touch of mirth in it and grinned harder.
“You are incorrigible,” he said, and walked away.
Branwen watched him go, his steps slow and his back straight despite the pain. The brief interaction had refreshed her, bringing her back to solid ground. Family did that to her. When her thoughts whirled out of control, she could always rely on her cousins, uncles, and Aunt Camilla to steady her. And while no one but Kellian would follow her into the Myrian Enclave, the others would stay in her heart.
✵
Vellien didn’t sleep well after their short conversation with Branwen. They kept rethinking it, worry crawling up their throat. So many little things didn’t add up. When they’d arrived at the Shelter that night, Larryn and Cal had been fighting, and Hasryan’s name constantly cropped up in their shouts. Vellien had stayed silent about it to avoid bringing trouble to the Shelter, but now that they knew Arathiel was involved … Where had he been? Vellien had remained at the Shelter until dawn, and they’d never seen him. Had Arathiel talked with Camilla that long? And if so, what about?
Vellien stared at the ceiling. They knew. They’d come to the conclusion right away, and they had spent the last hours trying to deny it, focusing on Branwen’s stories rather than on the certainty settling deep within their bones. Not even Camilla would fill a whole night chatting over tea without an important topic. Arathiel had been with her, and two days later, he’d freed Hasryan in front of the entire city. Now the assassin had vanished. Everyone had thought only Arathiel knew where to, but what if he’d had help? Camilla travelled around the bridges all the time, visiting the elderly. No one would question her movements, and she often carried homemade food in her basket. It would be so easy for her to reach a fugitive! What if Branwen was wrong—what if Hasryan and Arathiel weren’t nice people? And what was Vellien supposed to do about it?
The answer knocked at their door early in the morning, shortly after Branwen had left. Vellien’s eyes hurt from the lack of sleep, their heart hammered from the stress of this new secret, and they almost tripped themself as they hurried to the door.
Kellian stood on the other side. He held the doorway, leaning against it to keep his weight off his leg. A long gash ran down Kellian’s calf, and blood soaked his pants. Vellien’s fatigue vanished, and they reached for the older elf, offering support. Kellian put a hand on their shoulder with a crisp smile.
“I had an encounter with young Drake Allastam and his cronies,” he said. “They must have believed three thugs could take me down, because they really wanted that fight.”
“Are they okay?”
Vellien knew they shouldn’t care, but they hated when anyone got hurt. Not to mention wounding Drake Allastam right before the Golden Table wouldn’t do Diel any favours. They led Kellian to a chair and forced him to sit down, then crouched next to their uncle’s stretched-out leg.
“They’ll be fine. Light cuts, large bruises, and one of them might find it hard to walk for a few days.” Kellian tilted his head back with a sigh. “They’re bullies. Show them you’re stronger, and they’ll run.”
“You should be careful. Branwen is counting on you.” Vellien grabbed the bottom of Kellian’s pants. A blade had shorn them almost all the way down, so they ripped apart the inch left and peeled them aside. The cut wasn’t too deep under all the blood. “Don’t move. I’ll get bandages and clothes to clean it.”
It always surprised Vellien how much their tone changed when they had to heal someone. They hated imposing their will, yet if someone’s health was at stake, another side of them surfaced. Nothing else gave them such confidence, except perhaps singing. Not that they dared to try the latter in front of a crowd. One day, Vellien promised themself. They knew they had talent, but the idea of so many people looking at them always sent them into a cold sweat.
Vellien pushed the thoughts away and returned a few minutes later, equipped with a small bowl of water, a clean cloth, and a long roll of bandages. They wouldn’t even need to sew Kellian’s wound. Vellien settled down near Kellian’s leg, dipped the cloth in water, and started wiping all the blood away.
“Kellian … how dangerous do you think Hasryan is? The assassin, I mean.”
At first Kellian didn’t answer, gritting his teeth, his breath shuddering from the pain. “Why would he come after us, Vellien? We’re safe. We’re even helping his buddy.”
“I-I know that.” Vellien swallowed hard. They didn’t fear Hasryan would try to kill them, n
ot really. But what if Hasryan felt trapped and thought his only escape meant hurting Camilla? Or if someone bad found out and blamed the family? No matter how Vellien looked at it, it seemed like aiding Hasryan could lead to danger. They just didn’t know how to voice their concerns. “What if … what if we provided help for him?”
Kellian scowled. “We’re not.”
Vellien pressed their lips together, letting the topic go, and set the now-bloodied cloth to the ground. They put cold fingers on Kellian’s calf, around the wound, and closed their eyes. Alluma’s divine strength flooded into them. It was patience and kindness, perseverance and humility all at once. Vellien basked in the Elven Shepherd’s presence, allowing the power to gather within their palms. They sensed Kellian’s blood flow, and how the wound disrupted the pulsing stream. Vellien redirected their energy there, and suddenly everything felt red and urgent and painful, like they’d stepped inside the gash. Hundreds of little cuts surrounded them, crying for help. Vellien wrapped themself in the inherent serenity of Alluma’s presence, shielding themself against the panic, then closed the wound. They could have shoved healing power into it without care, and for a slice like Kellian’s it would have sufficed, but the more careful Vellien was, the thinner the scar would be, and the less strain their uncle would feel.
Once they were satisfied with their work, Vellien allowed Alluma’s strength to slip out. They opened their eyes, fighting against the emptiness settling in. The sensation would pass, they knew, and they’d closed Kellian’s gash so well they wouldn’t even need to bandage it. Vellien smiled. Compared to the complexity of the damage to Nevian’s mind, healing straightforward physical wounds had become effortless.
“There you go,” they said. “Almost as if nothing happened.”
Kellian was staring at them intently, dark eyes boring holes into them. Vellien flushed and cleared their throat, ill at ease with their uncle’s sudden intensity.
“What did you mean by ’what if we were helping him?’ Do you know something, Vellien?”
“No, I mean …” Vellien sighed. Was talking about this even a good idea? They were starting to regret it. “It’s only a suspicion. I don’t have proof, and I don’t know if Aunt Camilla really would.”
“Would what?”
Kellian’s tone had become pressing, and a little scary. Vellien lowered their head.
“The night Branwen returned, Camilla asked me to go to the Lower City to heal a wounded teenager. Apparently that was a request from Arathiel, but I’m sure Arathiel wasn’t at the Shelter at all during that time. I would have recognized him. I think … I think he stayed with Camilla all night.” Vellien’s insides squeezed. Camilla must have meant for this to remain a secret, and voicing their conclusion felt like a betrayal. “What if Arathiel needed more than help with a healer?”
Kellian’s fingers wrapped around his armchair, and he tightened his grip while staring ahead. “Sora told me … Aunt Camilla dropped her purse near the guards on the day of the execution, and Arathiel jumped into the fray while they were trying to help her pick up its contents.”
“Oh.” Vellien couldn’t believe it. They leaned back, their hand on the floor behind them, and stared at Kellian. Their uncle sprang to his feet with a short snarl.
“She did it,” he said. “She’s hiding him. She hid him from Sora. She even hid him from us!”
Vellien scrambled to their feet as Kellian strode toward the exit. “Wait! What are you doing? Uncle Kellian, wait!”
But Kellian was out of their door without listening, slamming it behind him. Vellien stared at the wood, their throat tight, certain now that they had made a mistake.
✵
Hasryan spent most of his days helping Camilla with the small tasks involved in her visits to older or disabled people’s homes. Although they talked about Esmera every now and then, neither mentioned his breakdown. Hasryan preferred it that way. He allowed himself to grow more comfortable around Camilla, even slinging around the occasional dark joke about his “misadventures,” but he didn’t want to dwell on the events surrounding his mother, or how they still affected him. He was content to contribute to Camilla’s life however he could.
At least he handled himself well with a sewing needle. He was fixing a heavy red curtain when someone banged on the door. Hasryan dropped everything and dashed for Camilla’s bedroom while she called that she was coming. He’d barely slipped inside when the visitor entered. Whoever this visitor was, they didn’t care to wait.
“Kellian?” Camilla’s surprise and irritation shone through her tone. A moment earlier, and he might have spotted Hasryan. “It takes your old aunt five seconds to open the door. What could possibly be this urgent?”
Hasryan crouched next to the bedroom’s entrance, eager to hear the conversation. Yesterday, a teenager had come inside to brew a special infusion with Camilla. Apparently, the Dathirii were about to be cast out of the nobility, all because the head of their House, Lord Dathirii, had reached an agreement with Arathiel. Hasryan could tell it made them all nervous. Camilla had become distracted, often falling into long silences or fretting over details. Hasryan wished he had found something to say to comfort her. Instead, they’d spent part of the night talking about Arathiel and Lord Dathirii. Camilla spoke of him fondly, and she clearly loved her nephew. From the sound of it, she didn’t extend the same trust to the elf in her doorway. Or perhaps it was just the circumstances. Hasryan closed his eyes and prayed Kellian had come to discuss the Golden Table meeting.
“Why did you never tell anyone Lord Arathiel Brasten had spent the winter solstice with you?” Kellian asked. “He didn’t leave with Vellien.”
So much for the Golden Table, Hasryan thought.
“No,” Camilla said. “He stayed. We had tea.”
“In the middle of the night.”
Fear stabbed through Hasryan’s stomach at the bitter doubt in Kellian’s voice. He moved around the door to get a partial view of the room. Camilla stood next to her counter, her gnarled hand on the surface. She seemed relaxed, if a bit concerned. Hasryan wondered if her heart hammered against her chest like his did. He didn’t believe this interrogation from Kellian was a coincidence. Hasryan wished he could see the elf in the doorway, but leaning further forward might bring him within Kellian’s sight. He knew what to expect, however. Barely over five feet tall, lean muscles with catlike grace, golden hair held back in a half-ponytail: the captain of the Dathirii guards had quite a reputation for his sword and archery skills. A few of the Crescent Moon mercenaries had tried to mess with him once, and had returned with serious wounds.
“Indeed,” Camilla said. “Kellian, everyone has a long and stressful day ahead. If you have something to tell me, please don’t hesitate to spit it out. I know you don’t enjoy lengthy conversations, and for once, I’m not in the mood for it either.”
Her tone had turned sharp. Hasryan wished he could see Kellian’s face. He’d never experienced such aggressiveness from Camilla, only ever dealing with the sweet and caring old lady. Hasryan had glimpsed a more adventurous past, however, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Camilla had a harder edge beneath the layers of kindness.
Kellian cleared his throat. “Where is the assassin hidden?”
Hasryan shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, afraid of any sounds he might make. He had known that sooner or later, someone would have pieced it together. It was over now; the inevitable had happened. Camilla would give him away. Hasryan knew how much she valued her relationship with the rest of the family, and House Dathirii wouldn’t agree with her actions. After a slow, steeling breath, Hasryan peered inside the room again. He at least wanted to see her expression when she betrayed him. She’d pressed her lips together and straightened up, her gaze never leaving the visitor at the door.
“Tell me where, and I won’t give your name. No one needs to know.” Kellian stepped forward and put a hand on Camilla’s shoulder, coming into Hasryan’s line of sight. A sword hung at his belt, inside a sleek j
ewelled scabbard. “Camilla, this could save our family. Who will care about Arathiel if we find Hasryan and bring him back? You can’t protect a murderer. It’s not just Lady Allastam. Sora can prove he assassinated several others!”
“Oh, get over yourself, Kellian.” She brushed his hand away and stepped back. “Hasryan was fifteen years old when Lady Allastam’s death happened. He’s not a cold-hearted killer. Life forced him down that path. Everybody used him, and you want me to do the same?”
“Camilla, he is—”
“Don’t you dare say a dark elf.” She lifted her chin and glared at him. “You’re better than that. We’ve been perpetuating myths about their morality for centuries, but they’re just that: lies to justify our war against them when they sought to understand nature. As far as we can tell, the dark elves have yet to upset the natural balance between creation and destruction despite centuries of experimentations. We need to stop calling them murderers. Alluma welcomes all Their children, white, brown, or obsidian.”
“Tell that to the ones who killed Clara,” he said.
Camilla stiffened and paled. When she answered, sadness laced her voice. “A raiding party does not make an entire race, Kellian. I remember that day just as well as you do; I was there. They didn’t just kill your wife—they stabbed my son, too. If that’s your excuse, we’re even guiltier than they are. We’ve sent military forays into their lands for longer than I have been alive.”
Hasryan held his breath, stunned by the intensity of her words. She’d never mentioned a son, although she had given him her grandson’s winter coat. Garith’s. He hadn’t bothered to ask if she had any direct children within the extensive Dathirii family.
Kellian shifted back in the heavy silence. Light-headed, unable to see him anymore, Hasryan leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Camilla defended him against her own family! It was so absurd his chest threatened to burst. She wouldn’t break her promise, not even for another Dathirii.
City of Betrayal Page 17
